LjL  °o°  °oo  // 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


GIFT  OF 

PROFESSOR 
GEORGE  R.  STEWART 


I 


ii4S 


IF  HIS  2L  J\,  E)  H  3L  2>  HI  E  A 


THE    GIFT: 


CHRISTMAS,    NEW    YEAR, 


AND 


BIRTHDAY    PRESENT. 


MDCCCXLV. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

CAREY    AND    HART. 

1845. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1844, 
J  BY  CAREY  AND  HART, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  ihe  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


C    SHERMAN,  PRJNTEK. 


CONTENTS. 

A  Gleam  of  Sunshine HENRY  w.  LONGFELLOW 7 

The  Schoolmaster's  Progress MRS.  KIRKLAND 10 

The  Wounded  Vulture ANNE  c.  LYNCH 26 

The  Power  of  an  "  Injured  Look" N.  p.  WILLIS 28 

Going  Home c.  p.  CRANCH 38 

The  Necklace ANNE  c.  LYNCH 40 

The  Purloined  Letter EDGAR  A.  POE 41 

To  Columbus  Dying w.  H.  FURNESS 62 

The  Moral  of  Goslyne  Greene,  or  the 

Man  that  was  Born  to  a  Fortune  . . .  JOSEPH  c.  NEAL 64 

The  Poet's  Apology R.  w.  EMERSON  77 

The  Stuy vesant  Pear-Tree MRS.  ELLET 78 

The  Rabbit-Catching 84 

Dirge R.  w.  EMERSON 94 

The  Inn  at  Cransac w.  H.  FURNESS 97 

Song  of  the  Angels F.  H.  HEDGE 130 

Evening  Flowers MRS.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY 132 

A  Prairie  Jumbie CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN 134 

The  Night-Blooming  Ceres H.  T.  TUCKERMAN 148 

Peter  Petrolius,  or  the  Man  that  was 

Born  in  the  Crooked  Street. . .       . . EDMUND  c.  WATMOUGH 150 


IV  CONTENTS. 

On  a  Picture  of  Harvey  Birch ANNE  c.  LYNCH 167 

The  Giant's  Coffin,  or  the  Feud  of 

Holt  and  Houston AUTHOR  OF  "THE  YEMASSEE,"  ETC...  169 

The  Roman  Girl c.  p.  CRANCH 212 

Stanzas ERNEST  HELFENSTEIN 213 

The  Dead  Guest 215 

The  Hemlock  Tree HENRY  w.  LONGFELLOW 276 

Washington  Crossing  the  Alleghany  . . .  ANNE  c.  LYNCH 277 

Leaves  from  the  Diary  of  a  Recluse 279 


LIST  OF  PLATES. 


AGNES W.  PAGE J.  CHENEY. 

TITLE G.  STUART J.  CHENEY. 

THE  NECKLACE C.  R.  LESLIE W.  HUMPHREYS. 

THE  TRAP  SPRUNG W.  S.  MOUNT J.  I.  PEASE. 

ANNETTE E.  MALBONE J.  CHENEY. 

WASHINGTON  AND  HARVEV  BIRCH A.  B.  DURAND J.  I.  PEASE. 

THE  ROMAN  GIRL D.  HUNTINGTON J.CHENEY. 

WASHINGTON  CROSSING  THE  ALLEGHANY. .  D.  HUNTINGTON R.  W.  DODSO.V. 


A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE. 

BY  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

THIS  is  the  place.     Stand  still,  my  steed, 

Let  me  review  the  scene, 
And  summon  from  the  shadowy  past 

The  forms  that  once  have  been. 

The  past  and  present  reunite, 

Beneath  time's  flowing  tide, 
Like  footprints  hidden  by  a  brook, 

But  seen  on  either  side. 

Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town, 

There  the  green  lane  descends, 
Through  which  I  walked  to  church  with  thee, 

Oh  !  gentlest  of  my  friends ! 

The  shadow  of  the  linden  trees, 

Lay  moving  on  the  grass ; 
Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 

A  shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies, 

And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they ; 
One  of  God's  holy  angels 

Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 


THE    GIFT. 

I  saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 

Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet, 
The  clover-blossoms  in  the  grass 

Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 

"  Sleep,  sleep,  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 

Of  earth  and  folly  born!" 
Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 

On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn. 

Through  the  closed  blinds,  the  golden  sun 

Poured  in  a  dusty  beam, 
Like  the  celestial  ladder 

Of  the  ancient  patriarch's  dream. 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  wind, 

Sweet  scented  with  the  hay, 
Turned  o'er  the  hymn-book's  fluttering  leaves, 

That  on  the  window  lay. 

Long  was  the  good  man's  sermon, 

But  it  seemed  not  so  to  me, 
For  he  spake  of  Ruth,  the  beautiful, 

And  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

Long  was  the  prayer  he  uttered, 

But  it  seemed  not  so  to  me, 
For  in  my  heart  I  prayed  with  him, 

But  still  I  thought  of  thee. 

But  now,  alas,  the  place  seems  changed  ; 

Thou  art  no  longer  here  ; 
Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 

With  thee  did  disappear. 


A    GLEAM    OF    SUNSHINE. 

Though  thoughts,  deep  rooted  in  my  heart, 
Like  pine  trees  dark  and  high, 

Subdue  the  light  of  noon,  and  breathe 
A  low  and  ceaseless  sigh ; 

This  memory  brightens  o'er  the  past, 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 
Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs, 

Shines  on  a  distant  field. 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  PROGRESS. 


BY  MRS.  KIRKLAND. 
AUTHOR  OF  "  A  NEW  HOME,"  ETC. 

MASTER  WILLIAM  HORNER  came  to  our  village  to  keep  school 
when  he  was  about  eighteen  years  old  :  tall,  lank,  straight-sided, 
and  straight-haired,  with  a  mouth  of  the  most  puckered  and 
solemn  kind.  His  figure  and  movements  were  those  of  a  puppet 
cut  out  of  shingle  and  jerked  by  a  string;  and  his  address 
corresponded  very  well  with  his  appearance.  Never  did  that 
prim  mouth  give  way  before  a  laugh.  A  faint  and  misty  smile 
was  the  widest  departure  from  its  propriety,  and  this  unaccus- 
tomed disturbance  made  wrinkles  in  the  flat  skinny  cheeks  like 
those  in  the  surface  of  a  lake,  after  the  intrusion  of  a  stone. 
Master  Horner  knew  well  what  belonged  to  the  pedagogical 
character,  and  that  facial  solemnity  stood  high  on  the  list  of 
indispensable  qualifications.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  before 
he  left  his  father's  house  how  he  would  look  during  the  term. 
He  had  not  planned  any  smiles  (knowing  that  he  must  "  board 
round"),  and  it  was  not  for  ordinary  occurrences  to  alter  his 
arrangements ;  so  that  when  he  was  betrayed  into  a  relaxation 
of  the  muscles,  it  was  "  in  such  a  sort"  as  if  he  was  putting  his 
bread  and  butter  in  jeopardy. 

Truly  he  had  a  grave  time  that  first  winter.  The  rod  of 
power  was  new  to  him,  and  he  felt  it  his  "  duty"  to  use  it 
more  frequently  than  might  have  been  thought  necessary  by 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  PROGRESS.  11 

those  upon  whose  sense  the  privilege  had  palled.  Tears  and 
sulky  faces,  and  impotent  fists  doubled  fiercely  when  his  back 
was  turned,  were  the  rewards  of  his  conscientiousness ;  and  the 
boys — and  girls  too-^were  glad  when  working  time  came  round 
again,  and  the  master  went  home  to  help  his  father  on  the 
farm. 

But  with  the  autumn  came  Master  Homer  again,  dropping 
among  us  as  quietly  as  the  faded  leaves,  and  awakening  at  least 
as  much  serious  reflection.  Would  he  be  as  self-sacrificing  as 
before,  postponing  his  own  ease  and  comfort  to  the  public  good  ? 
or  would  he  have  become  more  sedentary,  and  less  fond  of  cir- 
cumambulating the  school-room  with  a  switch  over  his  shoulder  ? 
Many  were  fain  to  hope  he  might  have  learned  to  smoke  during 
the  summer,  an  accomplishment  which  would  probably  have 
moderated  his  energy  not  a  little,  and  disposed  him  rather  to 
reverie  than  to  action.  But  here  he  was,  and  all  the  broader- 
chested  and  stouter-armed  for  his  labours  in  the  harvest-field. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  Master  Homer  was  of  a  cruel  and 
ogrish  nature — a  babe-eater — a  Herod — one  who  delighted  in 
torturing  the  helpless.  Such  souls  there  may  be,  among  those 
endowed  with  the  awful  control  of  the  ferule,  but  they  are  rare 
in  the  fresh  and  natural  regions  we  describe.  It  is,  we  believe, 
where  young  gentlemen  are  to  be  crammed  for  college  that  the 
process  of  hardening  heart  and  skin  together  goes  on  most 
vigorously.  Yet  among  the  uneducated  there  is  so  high  a 
respect  for  bodily  strength,  that  it  is  necessary  for  the  school- 
master to  show,  first  of  all,  that  he  possesses  this  inamissible 
requisite  for  his  place.  The  rest  is  more  readily  taken  for 
granted.  Brains  he  may  have — a  strong  arm  he  must  have : 
so  he  proves  the  more  important  claim  first.  We  must  there- 
fore make  all  due  allowance  for  Master  Horner,  who  could  not 
be  expected  to  overtop  his  position  so  far  as  to  discern  at  once 
the  philosophy  of  teaching. 

He  was  sadly  brow-beaten  during  his  first  term  of  service  by 
a  great  broad-shouldered  lout  of  some  eighteen  years  or  so,  who 
thought  he  needed  a  little  more  "  schooling,"  but  at  the  same 


12  THE    GIFT. 

time  felt  quite  competent  to  direct  the  manner  and  measure  of 
his  attempts. 

"  You'd  ought  to  begin  with  large-hand,  Joshuay,"  said  Master 
Homer  to  this  youth. 

"What  should  I  want  coarse-hand  for?"  said  the  disciple, 
with  great  contempt ;  "  coarse-hand  won't  never  do  me  no  good. 
I  want  a  fine-hand  copy." 

The  master  looked  at  the  infant  giant,  and  did  as  he  wished, 
but  we  say  not  with  what  secret  resolutions. 

At  another  time,  Master  Horner,  having  had  a  hint  from  some 
one  more  knowing  than  himself,  proposed  to  his  elder  scholars 
to  write  after  dictation,  expatiating  at  the  same  time  quite 
floridly,  (the  ideas  having  been  supplied  by  the  knowing  friend,) 
upon  the  advantages  likely  to  arise  from  this  practice,  and 
saying,  among  other  things, 

"  It  will  help  you,  when  you  write  letters,  to  spell  the  words 
good." 

"Pooh!"  said  Joshua,  "spellin'  ain't  nothin' ;  let  them  that 
finds  the  mistakes  correct  'em.  I'm  for  every  one's  havin'  a 
way  of  their  own."* 

"  How  dared  you  be  so  saucy  to  the  master  ?"  asked  one  of 
the  little  boys,  after  school. 

"  Because  I  could  lick  him,  easy,"  said  the  hopeful  Joshua, 
who  knew  very  well  why  the  master  did  not  undertake  him  on 
the  spot. 

Can  we  wonder  that  Master  Horner  determined  to  make  his 
empire  good  as  far  as  it  went  ? 

A  new  examination  was  required  on  the  entrance  into  a 
second  term,  and,  with  whatever  secret  trepidation,  the  master 
was  obliged  to  submit.  Our  law  prescribes  examinations,  but 
forgets  to  provide  for  the  competency  of  the  examiners ;  so  that 
few  better  farces  offer,  than  the  course  of  question  and  answer 
on  these  occasions.  We  know  not  precisely  what  were  Master 
Homer's  trials ;  but  we  have  heard  of  a  sharp  dispute  between 

*  Verbatim. 


13 

the  inspectors  whether  angel  spelt  angle  or  angel.  Angle 
had  it,  and  the  school  maintained  that  pronunciation  ever  after. 
Master  Horner  passed,  and  he  was  requested  to  draw  up  the 
certificate  for  the  inspectors  to  sign,  as  one  had  left  his  spec- 
tacles at  home,  and  the  other  had  a  bad  cold,  so  that  it  was  not 
convenient  for  either  to  write  more  than  his  name.  Master 
Horner's  exhibition  of  learning  on  this  occasion  did  not  reach 
us,  but  we  know  that  it  must  have  been  considerable,  since  he 
stood  the  ordeal. 

"  What  is  Orthography  ?"  said  an  inspector  once,  in  our 
presence. 

The  candidate  writhed  a  good  deal,  studied  the  beams  over- 
head and  the  chickens  out  of  the  window,  and  then  replied, 

"  It  is  so  long  since  I  learnt  the  first  part  of  the  spelling-book, 
that  I  can't  justly  answer  that  question.  But  if  I  could  just  look 
it  over,  I  guess  I  could." 

Our  schoolmaster  entered  upon  his  second  term  with  new 
courage  and  invigorated  authority.  Twice  certified,  who  should 
dare  doubt  his  competency  ?  Even  Joshua  was  civil,  and  lesser 
louts  of  course  obsequious ;  though  the  girls  took  more  liberties  ; 
for  they  feel  even  at  that  early  age,  that  influence  is  stronger 
than  strength. 

Could  a  young  schoolmaster  think  of  feruling  a  girl  with  her 
hair  in  ringlets  and  a  gold  ring  on  her  finger  1  Impossible — and 
the  immunity  extended  to  all  the  little  sisters  and  cousins  ;  and 
there  were  enough  large  girls  to  protect  all  the  feminine  part  of 
the  school.  With  the  boys  Master  Horner  still  had  many  a 
battle,  and  whether  with  a  view  to  this,  or  as  an  economical 
riise,  he  never  wore  his  coat  in  school,  saying  it  was  too  warm. 
Perhaps  it  was  an  astute  attention  to  the  prejudices  of  his  en> 
ployers,  who  love  no  man  that  does  not  earn  his  living  by  the 
sweat  of  his  brow.  The  shirt-sleeves  gave  the  idea  of  a  manual- 
labour  school  in  one  sense  at  least.  It  was  evident  that  the 
master  worked,  and  that  afforded  a  probability  that  the  scholars 
worked  too. 

Master  Horner's  success  was  most  triumphant  that  winter.  A 

2* 


14  THE    GIFT. 

year's  growth  had  improved  his  outward  man  exceedingly,  filling 
out  the  limbs  so  that  they  did  not  remind  you  so  forcibly  of  a 
young  colt's,  and  supplying  the  cheeks  with  the  flesh  and  blood 
so  necessary  when  mustaches  are  not  worn.  Experience  had 
given  him  a  degree  of  confidence,  and  confidence  gave  him 
power.  In  short,  people  said  the  master  had  waked  up  ;  and  so 
he  had.  He  actually  set  about  reading  for  improvement ;  and 
although  at  the  end  of  the  term  he  could  not  quite  make  out 
from  his  historical  studies  which  side  Hannibal  was  on,  yet  this 
is  readily  explained  by  the  fact  that  he  boarded  round,  and  was 
obliged  to  read  generally  by  firelight,  surrounded  by  ungoverned 
children. 

After  this,  Master  Horner  made  his  own  bargain.  When 
school-time  came  round  with  the  following  autumn,  and  the 
teacher  presented  himself  for  a  third  examination,  such  a  test 
was  pronounced  no  longer  necessary ;  and  the  district  consented 
to  engage  him  at  the  astounding  rate  of  sixteen  dollars  a  month, 
with  the  understanding  that  he  was  to  have  a  fixed  home,  pro- 
vided he  was  willing  to  allow  a  dollar  a  week  for  it.  Master 
Horner  bethought  him  of  the  successive  "  killing- times,"  and 
consequent  dough-nuts  of  the  twenty  families  in  which  he  had 
sojourned  the  years  before,  and  consented  to  the  exaction. 

Behold  our  friend  now  as  high  as  district  teacher  can  ever 
hope  to  be — his  scholarship  established,  his  home  stationary  and 
not  revolving,  and  the  good  behaviour  of  the  community  insured 
by  the  fact  that  he,  being  of  age,  had  now  a  farm  to  retire  upon 
in  case  of  any  disgust. 

Master  Horner  was  now  the  pre-eminent  beau  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, spite  of  the  prejudice  against  learning.  He  brushed 
his  hair  straight  up  in  front,  and  wore  a  sky-blue  riband  for  a 
guard  to  his  silver  watch,  and  walked  as  if  the  tall  heels  of  his 
blunt  boots  were  eggshells  and  not  leather.  Yet  he  was  far  from 
neglecting  the  duties  of  his  place.  He  was  beau  only  on  Sun- 
days and  holidays  ;  very  schoolmaster  the  rest  of  the  time. 

It  was  at  a  "  spelling-school"  that  Master  Horner  first  met  the 
educated  eyes  of  Miss  Harriet  Bangle,  a  young  lady  visiting  the 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  PROGRESS.  15 

Engleharts  in  our  neighbourhood.  She  was  from  one  of  the 
towns  in  Western  New  York,  and  had  brought  with  her  a  variety 
of  city  airs  and  graces  somewhat  caricatured,  and  set  off  with 
year-old  French  fashions  much  travestied.  Whether  she  had 
been  sent  out  to  the  new  country  to  try,  somewhat  late,  a  rustic 
chance  for  an  establishment,  or  whether  her  company  had  been 
found  rather  trying  at  home,  we  cannot  say.  The  view  which 
she  was  at  some  pains  to  make  understood  was,  that  her  friends 
had  contrived  this  method  of  keeping  her  out  of  the  way  of  a 
desperate  lover  whose  addresses  were  not  acceptable  to  them. 

If  it  should  seem  surprising  that  so  high-bred  a  visiter  should 
be  sojourning  in  the  wild  woods,  it  must  be  remembered  that  more 
than  one  celebrated  Englishman  and  not  a  few  distinguished 
Americans  have  farmer  brothers  in  the  western  country,  no  whit 
less  rustic  in  their  exterior  and  manner  of  life  than  the  plainest 
of  their  neighbours.  When  these  are  visited  by  their  refined 
kinsfolk,  we  of  the  woods  catch  glimpses  of  the  gay  world,  or 
think  we  do. 

"  That  great  medicine  hath 
With  its  tinct  gilded — " 

many  a  vulgarism  to  the  satisfaction  of  wiser  heads  than  ours. 

Miss  Bangle's  manner  bespoke  for  her  that  high  consideration 
which  she  felt  to  be  her  due.  Yet  she  condescended  to  be 
amused  by  the  rustics  and  their  awkward  attempts  at  gaiety  and 
elegance  ;  and,  to  say  truth,  few  of  the  village  merry-makings 
escaped  her,  though  she  wore  always  the  air  of  great  superiority. 

The  spelling-school  is  one  of  the  ordinary  winter  amusements 
in  the  country.  It  occurs  once  in  a  fortnight,  or  so,  and  has 
power  to  draw  out  all  the  young  people  for  miles  round, 
arrayed  in  their  best  clothes  and  their  holiday  behaviour.  When 
all  is  ready,  umpires  are  elected,  and  after  these  have  taken  the 
distinguished  place  usually  occupied  by  the  teacher,  the  young 
people  of  the  school  choose  the  two  best  scholars  to  head  the 
opposing  classes.  These  leaders  choose  their  followers  from 
the  mass,  each  calling  a  name  in  turn,  until  all  the  spellers  are 


16  THE    GIFT. 

ranked  on  one  side  or  the  other,  lining  the  sides  of  the  room, 
and  all  standing.  The  schoolmaster,  standing  too,  takes  his 
spelling-book,  and  gives  a  placid  yet  awe-inspiring  look  along 
the  ranks,  remarking  that  he  intends  to  be  very  impartial,  and 
that  he  shall  give  out  nothing  that  is  not  in  the  spelling-book. 
For  the  first  half  hour  or  so  he  chooses  common  and  easy 
words,  that  the  spirit  of  the  evening  may  not  be  damped  by 
the  too  early  thinning  of  the  classes.  When  a  word  is  missed, 
the  blunderer  has  to  sit  down,  and  be  a  spectator  only  for  the 
rest  of  the  evening.  At  certain  intervals,  some  of  the  best 
speakers  mount  the  platform,  and  "  speak  a  piece,"  which  is 
generally  as  declamatory  as  possible. 

The  excitement  of  this  scene  is  equal  to  that  afforded  by  any 
city  spectacle  whatever ;  and  towards  the  close  of  the  evening, 
when  difficult  and  unusual  words  are  chosen  to  confound  the 
small  number  who  still  keep  the  floor,  it  becomes  scarcely  less 
than  painful.  When  perhaps  only  one  or  two  remain  to  be 
puzzled,  the  master,  weary  at  last  of  his  task,  though  a  favourite 
one,  tries  by  tricks  to  put  down  those  whom  he  cannot  overcome 
in  fair  fight.  If  among  all  the  curious,  useless,  unheard-of  words 
which  may  be  picked  out  of  the  spelling-book,  he  cannot  find 
one  which  the  scholars  have  not  noticed,  he  gets  the  last  head 
down  by  some  quip  or  catch.  "  Bay"  will  perhaps  be  the  sound ; 
one  scholar  spells  it  "  bey,"  another,  "  bay,"  while  the  master 
all  the  time  means  "  ba,"  which  comes  within  the  rule,  being  in 
the  spelling-book. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions,  as  we  have  said,  that  Miss 
Bangle,  having  come  to  the  spelling-school  to  get  materials  for  a 
letter  to  a  female  friend,  first  shone  upon  Mr.  Homer.  She  was 
excessively  amused  by  his  solemn  air  and  puckered  mouth,  and 
set  him  down  at  once  as  fair  game.  Yet  she  could  not  help 
becoming  somewhat  interested  in  the  spelling-school,  and  after 
it  was  over  found  she  had  not  stored  up  half  as  many  of  the 
schoolmaster's  points  as  she  intended,  for  the  benefit  of  her 
correspondent. 

In  the  evening's  contest  a  young  girl  from  some  few  miles' 


17 

distance,  Ellen  Kingsbury,  the  only  child  of  a  substantial 
farmer,  had  been  the  very  last  to  sit  down,  after  a  prolonged 
effort  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Horner  to  puzzle  her,  for  the  credit  of 
his  own  school.  She  blushed,  and  smiled,  and  blushed  again, 
but  spelt  on,  until  Mr.  Horner's  cheeks  were  crimson  with 
excitement  and  some  touch  of  shame  that  he  should  be  baffled 
at  his  own  weapons.  At  length,  either  by  accident  or  design, 
Ellen  missed  a  word,  and  sinking  into  her  seat,  was  numbered 
with  the  slain. 

In  the  laugh  and  talk  which  followed,  (for  with  the  conclusion 
of  the  spelling,  all  form  of  a  public  assembly  vanishes,)  our 
schoolmaster  said  so  many  gallant  things  to  his  fair  enemy,  and 
appeared  so  much  animated  by  the  excitement  of  the  contest, 
that  Miss  Bangle  began  to  look  upon  him  with  rather  more 
respect,  and  to  feel  somewhat  indignant  that  a  little  rustic  like 
Ellen  should  absorb  the  entire  attention  of  the  only  beau.  She 
put  on,  therefore,  her  most  gracious  aspect,  and  mingled  in  the 
circle ;  caused  the  schoolmaster  to  be  presented  to  her,  and  did 
her  best  to  fascinate  him  by  certain  airs  and  graces  which  she 
had  found  successful  elsewhere.  What  game  is  too  small  for 
the  close-woven  net  of  a  coquette  ? 

Mr.  Horner  quitted  not  the  fair  Ellen  until  he  had  handed  her 
into  her  father's  sleigh;  and  he  then  wended  his  way  home- 
wards, never  thinking  that  he  ought  to  have  escorted  Miss 
Bangle  to  her  uncle's,  though  she  certainly  waited  a  little  while 
for  his  return. 

We  must  not  follow  into  particulars  the  subsequent  intercourse 
of  our  schoolmaster  with  the  civilized  young  lady.  All  that 
concerns  us  is  the  result  of  Miss  Bangle's  benevolent  designs 
upon  his  heart.  She  tried  most  sincerely  to  find  its  vulnerable 
spot,  meaning  no  doubt  to  put  Mr.  Horner  on  his  guard  for  the 
future ;  and  she  was  unfeignedly  surprised  to  discover  that  her 
best  efforts  were  of  no  avail.  She  concluded  he  must  have 
taken  a  counter-poison,  and  she  was  not  slow  in  guessing  its 
source.  She  had  observed  the  peculiar  fire  which  lighted  up  his 
eyes  in  the  presence  of  Ellen  Kingsbury,  and  she  bethought  her 


18  THE    GIFT. 

of  a  plan  which  would  ensure  her  some  amusement  at  the  ex- 
pense of  these  impertinent  rustics,  though  in  a  manner  different 
somewhat  from  her  original  more  natural  idea  of  simple  coquetry. 

A  letter  was  written  to  Master  Homer,  purporting  to  come 
from  Ellen  Kingsbury,  worded  so  artfully  that  the  schoolmaster 
understood  at  once  that  it  was  intended  to  be  a  secret  communi- 
cation, though  its  ostensible  object  was  an  inquiry  about  some 
ordinary  affair.  This  was  laid  in  Mr.  Homer's  desk  before  he 
came  to  school,  with  an  intimation  that  he  might  leave  an 
answer  in  a  certain  spot  on  the  following  morning.  The  bait 
took  at  once,  for  Mr.  Horner,  honest  and  true  himself,  and  much 
smitten  with  the  fair  Ellen,  was  too  happy  to  be  circumspect. 
The  answer  was  duly  placed,  and  as  duly  carried  to  Miss  Bangle 
by  her  accomplice,  Joe  Englehart,  an  unlucky  pickle  who  "  was 
always  for  ill,  never  for  good,"  and  who  found  no  difficulty  in 
obtaining  the  letter  unwatched,  since  the  master  was  obliged  to 
be  in  school  at  nine,  and  Joe  could  always  linger  a  few  minutes 
later.  This  answer  being  opened  and  laughed  at,  Miss  Bangle 
had  only  to  contrive  a  rejoinder,  which  being  rather  more  par- 
ticular in  its  tone  than  the  original  communication,  led  on  yet 
again  the  happy  schoolmaster,  who  branched  out  into  sentiment, 
"  taffeta  phrases,  silken  terms  precise,"  talked  of  hills  and  dales 
and  rivulets,  and  the  pleasures  of  friendship,  and  concluded  by 
entreating  a  continuance  of  the  correspondence. 

Another  letter  and  another,  every  one  more  flattering  and 
encouraging  than  the  last,  almost  turned  the  sober  head  of  our 
poor  master,  and  warmed  up  his  heart  so  effectually  that  he 
could  scarcely  attend  to  his  business.  The  spelling-schools  were 
not  forgotten,  however,  and  Ellen  Kingsbury  made  one  of  the 
merry  company;  but  the  latest  letter  had  not  forgotten  to  cau- 
tion Mr.  Horner  not  to  betray  the  intimacy,  so  that  he  was  in 
honour  bound  to  restrict  himself  to  the  language  of  the  eyes, 
hard  as  it  was  to  forbear  the  single  whisper  for  which  he  would 
have  given  his  very  dictionary.  So  their  meeting  passed  off 
without  the  explanation  which  Miss  Bangle  began  to  fear  would 
cut  short  her  benevolent  amusement. 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER'S  PROGRESS.  19 

The  correspondence  was  resumed  with  renewed  spirit,  and 
carried  on  until  Miss  Bangle,  though  not  over-burdened  with 
sensitiveness,  began  to  be  a  little  alarmed  for  the  consequences 
of  her  malicious  pleasantry.  She  perceived  that  she  herself  had 
turned  schoolmistress,  and  that  Master  Horner,  instead  of  being 
merely  her  dupe,  had  become  her  pupil  too ;  for  the  style  of  his 
replies  had  been  constantly  improving,  and  the  earnest  and 
manly  tone  which  he  assumed  promised  any  thing  but  the  quiet, 
sheepish  pocketing  of  injury  and  insult,  upon  which  she  had 
counted.  In  truth,  there  was  something  deeper  than  vanity  in 
the  feelings  with  which  he  regarded  Ellen  Kingsbury.  The 
encouragement  which  he  supposed  himself  to  have  received, 
threw  down  the  barrier  which  his  extreme  bashfulness  would 
have  interposed  between  himself  and  any  one  who  possessed 
charms  enough  to  attract  him ;  and  we  must  excuse  him  if,  in 
such  a  case,  he  did  not  criticise  the  mode  of  encouragement,  but 
rather  grasped  eagerly  the  proffered  good,  without  a  scruple,  or 
one  which  he  would  own  to  himself,  as  to  the  propriety  with 
which  it  was  tendered.  He  was  as  much  in  love  as  a  man  can 
be,  and  the  seriousness  of  real  attachment  gave  both  grace  and 
dignity  to  his  once  awkward  diction. 

The  evident  determination  of  Mr.  Horner  to  come  to  the  point 
of  asking  papa,  brought  Miss  Bangle  to  a  very  awkward  pass. 
She  had  expected  to  return  home  before  matters  had  proceeded 
so  far,  but  being  obliged  to  remain  some  time  longer,  she  was 
equally  afraid  to  go  on  and  to  leave  off,  a  denouement  being 
almost  certain  to  ensue  in  either  case.  Things  stood  thus  when 
it  was  time  to  prepare  for  the  grand  exhibition  which  was  to 
close  the  winter's  term. 

This  is  an  affair  of  too  much  magnitude  to  be  fully  described 
in  the  small  space  yet  remaining  in  which  to  bring  out  our  vera- 
cious history.  It  must  be  "  slubber'd  o'er  in  haste," — its  im- 
portant preliminaries  left  to  the  cold  imagination  of  the  reader — 
its  fine  spirit  perhaps  evaporating  for  want  of  being  embodied  in 
words.  We  can  only  say  that  our  master,  whose  school-life  was 


20  THE    GIFT. 

to  close  with  the  term,  laboured  as  man  never  before  laboured  in 
such  a  cause,  resolute  to  trail  a  cloud  of  glory  after  him  when 
he  left  us.  Not  a  candlestick  nor  a  curtain  that  was  attainable, 
either  by  coaxing  or  bribery,  was  left  in  the  village  ;  even  the 
only  piano,  that  frail  treasure,  was  wiled  away  and  placed  in 
one  corner  of  the  rickety  stage.  The  most  splendid  of  all  the 
pieces  in  the  "  Columbian  Orator,"  the  "  American  Speaker," 

the but   we   must   not   enumerate.      In  a   word,   the   most 

astounding  and  pathetic  specimens  of  eloquence  within  ken  of 
either  teacher  or  scholars,  had  been  selected  for  the  occasion ; 
and  several  young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  whose  academical  course 
had  been  happily  concluded  at  an  earlier  period,  either  at  our 
own  institution  or  at  some  other,  had  consented  to  lend  them- 
selves to  the  parts  and  their  choicest  decorations  for  the  proper- 
ties, of  the  dramatic  portion  of  the  entertainment. 

Among  these  last  was  pretty  Ellen  Kingsbury,  who  had  agreed 
to  personate  the  Queen  of  Scots,  in  the  garden  scene  from 
Schiller's  tragedy  of  "  Mary  Stuart ;"  and  this  circumstance  ac- 
cidentally afforded  Master  Horner  the  opportunity  he  had  so  long 
desired,  of  seeing  his  fascinating  correspondent  without  the  pre- 
sence of  peering  eyes.  A  dress-rehearsal  occupied  the  afternoon 
before  the  day  of  days,  and  the  pathetic  expostulations  of  the 
lovely  Mary — 

Mine  all  doth  hang — my  life — my  destiny — 
Upon  my  words — upon  the  force  of  tears ! — 

aided  by  the  long  veil,  and  the  emotion  which  sympathy  brought 
into  Ellen's  countenance,  proved  too  much  for  the  enforced  pru- 
dence of  Master  Horner.  When  the  rehearsal  was  over,  and 
the  heroes  and  heroines  were  to  return  home,  it  was  found  that, 
by  a  stroke  of  witty  invention  not  new  in  the  country,  the  harness 
on  Mr.  Kingsbury's  horses  had  been  cut  in  several  places,  his 
whip  hidden,  his  buffalo-skins  spread  on  the  ground  and  the  sleigh 
turned  bottom  upwards  on  them.  This  afforded  an  excuse  for  the 
master's  borrowing  a  horse  and  sleigh  of  somebody,  and  claiming 


21 

the  privilege  of  taking  Miss  Ellen  home,  while  her  father  re- 
turned with  only  Aunt  Sally  and  a  great  bag  of  bran  from  the 
mill — companions  about  equally  interesting. 

Here,  then,  was  the  golden  opportunity  so  long  wished  for ! 
Here  was  the  power  of  ascertaining  at  once  what  is  never  quite 
certain  until  we  have  heard  it  from  warm,  living  lips,  whose 
testimony  is  strengthened  by  glances  in  which  the  whole  soul 
speaks  or — seems  to  speak.  The  time  was  short,  for  the  sleigh- 
ing was  but  too  fine ;  and  Father  Kingsbury,  having  tied  up  his 
harness,  and  collected  his  scattered  equipment,  was  driving  so 
close  behind  that  there  was  no  possibility  of  lingering  for  a  mo- 
ment. Yet  many  moments  were  lost  before  Mr.  Horner,  very 
much  in  earnest,  and  all  unhackneyed  in  matters  of  this  sort, 
could  find  a  word  in  which  to  clothe  his  new-found  feelings. 
The  horse  seemed  to  fly — the  distance  was  half  past — and  at 
length,  in  absolute  despair  of  any  thing  better,  he  blurted  out  at 
once  what  he  had  determined  to  avoid — a  direct  reference  to  the 
correspondence. 

A  game  at  cross-purposes  ensued ;  exclamations  and  expla- 
nations, and  denials  and  apologies  filled  up  the  time  which  was 
to  have  made  Master  Horner  so  blest.  The  light  from  Mr. 
Kingsbury's  windows  shone  upon  the  path,  and  the  whole  result 
of  this  conference  so  longed  for,  was  a  burst  of  tears  from  the 
perplexed  and  mortified  Ellen,  who  sprang  from  Mr.  Horner's 
attempts  to  detain  her,  rushed  into  the  house  without  vouchsafing 
him  a  word  of  adieu,  and  left  him  standing,  no  bad  personification 
of  Orpheus,  after  the  last  hopeless  flitting  of  his  Eurydice. 

"  Won't  you  'light,  Master  ?"  said  Mr.  Kingsbury. 

"Yes — no — thank  you — good  evening — "  stammered  poor 
Master  Horner,  so  stupified  that  even  Aunt  Sally  called  him  "  a 
dummy." 

The  horse  took  the  sleigh  against  the  fence,  going  home,  and 
threw  out  the  master,  who  scarcely  recollected  the  accident ;  while 
to  Ellen  the  issue  of  this  unfortunate  drive  was  a  sleepless  night 
and  so  high  a  fever  in  the  morning  that  our  village  doctor  was 
called  to  Mr.  Kingsbury's  before  breakfast. 

3 


22  THE    GIFT. 

Poor  Master  Horner's  distress  may  hardly  be  imagined.  Dis- 
appointed, bewildered,  cut  to  the  quick,  yet  as  much  in  love  as 
ever,  he  could  only  in  bitter  silence  turn  over  in  his  thoughts  the 
issue  of  his  cherished  dream  ;  now  persuading  himself  that  Ellen's 
denial  was  the  effect  of  a  sudden  bash  fulness,  now  inveighing 
against  the  fickleness  of  the  sex,  as  all  men  do  when  they  are 
angry  with  any  one  woman  in  particular.  But  his  exhibition 
must  go  on,  in  spite  of  wretchedness ;  and  he  went  about  me- 
chanically, talking  of  curtains  and  candles,  and  music,  and  atti- 
tudes, and  pauses,  and  emphasis,  looking  like  a  somnambulist 
whose  "  eyes  are  open  but  their  sense  is  shut,"  and  often  sur- 
prising those  concerned  by  the  utter  unfitness  of  his  answers. 

It  was  almost  evening  when  Mr.  Kingsbury,  having  discovered, 
through  the  intervention  of  the  Doctor  and  Aunt  Sally,  the  cause 
of  Ellen's  distress,  made  his  appearance  before  the  unhappy  eyes 
of  Master  Horner,  angry,  solemn  and  determined ;  taking  the 
schoolmaster  apart,  and  requiring  an  explanation  of  his  treatment 
of  his  daughter.  In  vain  did  the  perplexed  lover  ask  for  time  to 
clear  himself,  declare  his  respect  for  Miss  Ellen  and  his  willing- 
ness to  give  every  explanation  which  she  might  require :  the 
father  was  not  to  be  put  off;  and  though  excessively  reluctant, 
Mr.  Horner  had  no  resource  but  to  show  the  letters  which  alone 
could  account  for  his  strange  discourse  to  Ellen.  He  unlocked  his 
desk,  slowly  and  unwillingly,  while  the  old  man's  impatience  was 
such  that  he  could  scarcely  forbear  thrusting  in  his  own  hand  to 
snatch  at  the  papers  which  were  to  explain  this  vexatious  mys- 
tery. What  could  equal  the  utter  confusion  of  Master  Horner  and 
the  contemptuous  anger  of  the  father,  when  no  letters  were  to  be 
found !  Mr.  Kingsbury  was  too  passionate  to  listen  to  reason,  or 
to  reflect  for  one  moment  upon  the  irreproachable  good  name  of 
the  schoolmaster.  He  went  away  in  inexorable  wrath;  threaten- 
ing every  practicable  visitation  of  public  and  private  justice  upon 
the  head  of  the  offender,  whom  he  accused  of  having  attempted 
to  trick  his  daughter  into  an  entanglement  which  should  result 
in  his  favour. 

A  doleful  exhibition  was  this  last  one  of  our  thrice-approved 


23 

and  most  worthy  teacher !  Stern  necessity  and  the  power  of 
habit  enabled  him  to  go  through  with  most  of  his  part,  but  where 
was  the  proud  fire  which  had  lighted  up  his  eye  on  similar 
occasions  before  1  He  sat  as  one  of  three  judges  before  whom 
the  unfortunate  Robert  Emmet  was  dragged  in,  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, by  two  fierce-looking  officials ;  but  the  chief  judge 
looked  far  more  like  a  criminal  than  did  the  proper  represent- 
ative. He  ought  to  have  personated  Othello,  but  was  obliged 
to  excuse  himself  from  raving  for  "  the  handkerchief!  the  hand- 
kerchief!" on  the  rather  anomalous  plea  of  a  bad  cold.  "  Mary 
Stuart"  being  "  i'  the  bond,"  was  anxiously  expected  by  the 
impatient  crowd,  and  it  was  with  distress  amounting  to  agony, 
that  the  master  was  obliged  to  announce  in  person,  the  necessity 
of  omitting  that  part  of  the  representation,  on  account  of  the 
illness  of  one  of  the  young  ladies. 

Scarcely  had  the  words  been  uttered,  and  the  speaker  hidden 
his  burning  face  behind  the  curtain,  when  Mr.  Kingsbury  started 
up  in  his  place  amid  the  throng,  to  give  a  public  recital  of  his 
grievance — no  uncommon  resort  in  the  new  country.  He  dashed 
at  once  to  the  point ;  and  before  some  friends,  who  saw  the  utter 
impropriety  of  his  proceeding,  could  persuade  him  to  defer  his 
vengeance,  he  had  laid  before  the  assembly — some  three  hundred 
people,  perhaps — his  own  statement  of  the  case.  He  was  got 
out  at  last,  half  coaxed,  half  hustled ;  and  the  gentle  public  only 
half  understanding  what  had  been  set  forth  thus  unexpectedly, 
made  quite  a  pretty  row  of  it.  Some  clamoured  loudly  for  the 
conclusion  of  the  exercises ;  others  gave  utterance  in  no  parti- 
cularly choice  terms  to  a  variety  of  opinions  as  to  the  school- 
master's proceedings,  varying  the  note  occasionally  by  shouting, 
"  the  letters  !  the  letters  !  why  don't  you  bring  out  the  letters  ?" 

At  length,  by  means  of  much  rapping  on  the  desk  by  the 
president  of  the  evening,  who  was  fortunately  a  "  popular"  cha- 
racter, order  was  partially  restored ;  and  the  favourite  scene 
from  Miss  More's  dialogue  of  David  and  Goliah  was  announced 
as  the  closing  piece.  The  sight  of  little  David  in  a  white  tunic 
edged  with  red  tape,  with  a  calico  scrip  and  a  very  primitive- 
looking  sling ;  and  a  huge  Goliah  decorated  with  a  militia  belt 


24  THE    GIFT. 

and  sword,  and  a  spear  like  a  weaver's  beam  indeed,  enchained 
every  body's  attention.  Even  the  peccant  schoolmaster  and  his 
pretended  letters  were  forgotten,  while  the  sapient  Goliah,  every 
time  that  he  raised  the  spear,  in  the  energy  of  his  declamation, 
to  thump  upon  the  stage,  picked  away  fragments  of  the  low 
ceiling,  which  fell  conspicuously  on  his  great  shock  of  black 
hair.  At  last,  with  the  crowning  threat,  up  went  the  spear  for 
an  astounding  thump,  and  down  came  a  large  piece  of  the  ceiling, 
and  with  it — a  shower  of  letters. 

The  confusion  that  ensued  beggars  all  description.  A  general 
scramble  took  place,  and  in  another  moment  twenty  pairs  of 
eyes,  at  least,  were  feasting  on  the  choice  phrases  lavished  upon 
Mr.  Horner.  Miss  Bangle  had  sat  through  the  whole  previous 
scene,  trembling  for  herself,  although  she  had,  as  she  supposed, 
guarded  cunningly  against  exposure.  She  had  needed  no  pro- 
phet to  tell  her  what  must  be  the  result  of  a  tete-a-tete  between 
Mr.  Horner  and  Ellen ;  and  the  moment  she  saw  them  drive  off 
together,  she  induced  her  imp  to  seize  the  opportunity  of  ab- 
stracting the  whole  parcel  of  letters  from  Mr.  Horner's  desk ; 
which  he  did  by  means  of  a  sort  of  skill  which  comes  by  nature 
to  such  goblins :  picking  the  lock  by  the  aid  of  a  crooked  nail, 
as  neatly  as  if  he  had  been  born  within  the  shadow  of  the 
Tombs. 

But  magicians  sometimes  suffer  severely  from  the  malice  with 
which  they  have  themselves  inspired  their  familiars.  Joe  Engle- 
hart  having  been  a  convenient  tool  thus  far,  thought  it  quite  time 
to  torment  Miss  Bangle  a  little ;  so,  having  stolen  the  letters  at 
her  bidding,  he  hid  them  on  his  own  account,  and  no  persuasions 
of  hers  could  induce  him  to  reveal  this  important  secret,  which 
he  chose  to  reserve  as  a  rod  in  case  she  refused  him  some  inter- 
cession with  his  father,  or  some  other  accommodation,  rendered 
necessary  by  his  mischievous  habits. 

He  had  concealed  the  precious  parcel  in  the  unfloored  loft 
above  the  school-room,  a  place  accessible  only  by  means  of  a 
small  trap-door  without  staircase  or  ladder ;  and  here  he  meant 
to  have  kept  them  while  it  suited  his  purposes,  but  for  the 
untimely  intrusion  of  the  weaver's  beam. 


THE    SCHOOLMASTER    S    PROGRESS.  25 

Miss  Bangle  had  sat  through  all,  as  we  have  said,  thinking 
the  letters  safe,  yet  vowing  vengeance  against  her  confederate 
for  not  allowing  her  to  secure  them  by  a  satisfactory  conflagra- 
tion, and  it  was  not  until  she  heard  her  own  name  whispered 
through  the  crowd,  that  she  was  awakened  to  her  true  situation. 
The  sagacity  of  the  low  creatures  whom  she  had  despised  showed 
them  at  once  that  the  letters  must  be  hers,  since  her  character 
had  been  pretty  shrewdly  guessed,  and  the  handwriting  wore  a 
more  practised  air  than  is  usual  among  females  in  the  country. 
This  was  first  taken  for  granted,  and  then  spoken  of  as  an 
acknowledged  fact. 

The  assembly  moved  like  the  heavings  of  a  troubled  sea. 
Every  body  felt  that  this  was  every  body's  business.  "  Put  her 
out !"  was  heard  from  more  than  one  rough  voice  near  the  door, 
and  this  was  responded  to  by  loud  and  angry  murmurs  from 
within. 

Mr.  Englehart,  not  waiting  to  inquire  into  the  merits  of  the 
case  in  this  scene  of  confusion,  hastened  to  get  his  family  out  as 
quietly  and  as  quickly  as  possible,  but  groans  and  hisses  followed 
his  niece  as  she  hung  half-fainting  on  his  arm,  quailing  com- 
pletely beneath  the  instinctive  indignation  of  the  rustic  public. 
As  she  passed  out,  a  yell  resounded  among  the  rude  boys  about 
the  door,  and  she  was  lifted  into  a  sleigh,  insensible  from  terror. 
She  disappeared  from  that  evening,  and  no  one  knew  the  time  of 
her  final  departure  for  "  the  east." 

Mr.  Kingsbury,  who  is  a  just  man  when  he  is  not  in  a  pas- 
sion, made  all  the  reparation  in  his  power  for  his  harsh  and 
ill-considered  attack  upon  the  master ;  and  we  believe  that 
functionary  did  not  show  any  traits  of  implacability  of  charac- 
ter. At  least  he  was  seen,  not  many  days  after,  sitting  peace- 
ably at  tea  with  Mr.  Kingsbury,  Aunt  Sally,  and  Miss  Ellen ; 
and  he  has  since  gone  home  to  build  a  house  upon  his  farm. 
And  people  do  say,  that  after  a  few  months  more,  Ellen  will  not 
need  Miss  Bangle's  intervention  if  she  should  see  fit  to  corre- 
spond with  the  umquhile  schoolmaster. 

3* 


THE  WOUNDED  VULTURE. 


BY  ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 

[This  incident  is  beautifully  related  in  Miss  Bremer's  Diary.] 

A  KINGLY  vulture  sat  alone, 

Lord  of  the  ruin  round, 
Where  Egypt's  ancient  monuments, 

Upon  the  desert  frowned. 

A  hunter's  eager  eye  had  marked 

The  form  of  that  proud  bird, 
And  through  the  voiceless  solitude, 

His  ringing  shot  was  heard. 

It  rent  that  vulture's  plumed  breast, 

Aimed  with  unerring  hand, 
And  his  life-blood  gushed  warm  and  red, 

Upon  the  yellow  sand. 

No  struggle  marked  the  deadly  wound, 

He  gave  no  piercing  cry, 
But  calmly  spread  his  giant  wings, 

And  sought  the  upper  sky. 

In  vain  with  swift  pursuing  shot 

The  hunter  seeks  his  prey, 
Circling  and  circling  upward  still, 

On  his  majestic  way. 


THE    WOUNDED    VULTURE.  27 

Up  to  the  blue  empyrean, 

He  wings  his  steady  flight, 
Till  his  receding  form  is  lost, 

In  the  full  flood  of  light. 

Oh,  wounded  heart !  oh,  suffering  soul ! 

Sit  not  with  folded  wing, 
Where  broken  dreams  and  ruined  hopes 

Their  mournful  shadows  fling. 

Outspread  thy  pinions  like  that  bird, 

Take  thou  the  path  sublime, 
Beyond  the  flying  shafts  of  Fate, 

Beyond  the  wounds  of  Time. 

Mount  upward  !  brave  the  clouds  and  storms 

Above  life's  desert  plain 
There  is  a  calmer,  purer  air, 

A  heaven  thou  too  may'st  gain. 

And  as  that  dim,  ascending  form 

Was  lost  in  day's  broad  light, 
So  shall  thine  earthly  sorrows  fade. 

Lost  in  the  Infinite. 


THE  POWER  OF  AN  "  INJURED  LOOK." 

BY  N.  P.  WILLIS. 

CHAPTER  I. 

I  HAD  a  sort  of  candle-light  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Philip 
McRueit  when  we  were  in  college.  I  mean  to  say  that  I  had  a 
daylight  repugnance  to  him,  and  never  walked  with  him,  or 
talked  with  him,  or  rode  with  him,  or  sat  with  him ;  and,  indeed, 
seldom  saw  him — except  as  one  of  a  club  oyster-party  of  six. 
He  was  a  short,  sharp,  satirical  man,  (nicknamed  "  my  cruet," 
by  his  cronies — rather  descriptively !)  but  as  plausible  and  as 
vindictive  as  Mephistopheles  before  and  after  the  ruin  of  a  soul. 
In  some  other  state  of  existence  I  had  probably  known,  and  suf- 
fered by,  Phil.  McRueit — for  I  knew  him  like  the  sleeve  of  an 
old  coat,  the  first  day  I  laid  eyes  on  him ;  though  other  people 
seemed  to  have  no  such  instinct.  Oh,  we  were  not  new  ac- 
quaintances— from  whatever  star  he  had  been  transported,  for 
his  sins,  to  this  planet  of  dirt.  I  think  he  was  of  the  same 
opinion,  himself.  He  chose  between  open  warfare  and  concili- 
ation in  the  first  five  minutes — after  seeing  me  as  a  stranger — 
chose  the  latter. 

Six  or  seven  years  after  leaving  college,  I  was  following  my 
candle  up  to  bed  rather  musingly,  one  night  at  the  Astor,  and 
on  turning  a  corner,  I  was  obliged  to  walk  round  a  short 
gentleman  who  stood  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  in  an  attitude  of 
fixed  contemplation.  As  I  weathered  the  top  of  his  hat  rather 


THE    POWER    OF   AN    "INJURED    LOOK."  29 

closely,  I  caught  the  direction  of  his  eye,  and  saw  that  he  was 
regarding,  very  fixedly,  a  pair  of  rather  dusty  kid  slippers,  which 
had  been  set  outside  the  door,  probably  for  cleaning,  by  the 
occupant  of  the  chamber  opposite.  As  the  gentleman  did  not 
move,  I  turned  on  the  half  landing  of  the  next  flight  of  stairs, 
and  looked  back,  breaking  in,  by  my  sudden  pause,  upon  his  fit 
of  abstraction.  It  was  McRueit,  and  on  recognising  me,  he 
immediately  beckoned  me  to  his  side. 

"  Does  it  strike  you,"  said  he,  "  that  there  is  any  thing  pecu- 
liar in  that  pair  of  shoes  ?" 

"  No — except  that  they  certify  to  two  very  small  feet  on  the 
other  side  of  the  door." 

"  Not  merely  «  small,'  my  dear  fellow  !  Do  you  see  where  the 
pressure  has  been  in  those  slender  shoes,  how  straight  the  inside 
line,  how  arched  the  instep,  how  confidingly  flat  the  pressure 
downward  of  the  little  great  toe !  It's  a  woman  of  sweet  and 
relying  character  who  wore  that  shoe  to-day,  and  I  must  know 
her !  More,  sir,  I  must  marry  her !  Ah,  you  laugh — but  I 
will !  There's  a  magnetism  in  that  pair  of  shoes  addressed  to 
me  only.  Beg  your  pardon — good  night — I'll  go  down  stairs 
and  find  out  her  name  by  her  number — *  74 !'  I'll  be  well 
acquainted  with  '  74'  by  this  time  to-morrow !" 

For  the  unconscious  young  lady  asleep  in  that  room,  I  lay 
awake  half  the  night,  troubled  with  foreboding  pity.  I  knew 
the  man  so  well,  I  was  so  certain  that  he  would  leave  nothing 
possible  undone  to  carry  out  this  whimsical  purpose !  I  knew 
that  from  that  moment  was  levelled,  point-blank,  at  the  lady, 
whoever  she  might  be,  (if  single)  a  battery  of  devilish  and  per- 
tinacious ingenuity,  which  would  carry  most  any  small  fort  of  a 
heart,  most  any  way  barricaded  and  defended.  He  was  well . 
off ;  he  was  well-looking  enough ;  he  was  deep  and  crafty.  But 
if  he  did  win  her,  she  was  gone !  gone,  I  knew,  from  happiness, 
like  a  stone  from  a  sling.  He  was  a  tyrant — subtle  in  his 
cruelties  to  all  people  dependent  on  him — and  her  life  would  be 
one  of  refined  torture,  neglect,  betrayal,  and  tears. 

A  fit  of  intermittent  disgust  for  strangers,  to  which  all  persons 


30  THE    GIFT. 

living  in  hotels  are  more  or  less  liable,  confined  my  travels,  for 
some  days  after  this  rencontre,  to  the  silence-and-slop  thorough- 
fare of  the  back  stairs,  "  Coming  to  my  feed"  of  society  one 
rainy  morning,  I  went  into  the  drawing-room  after  breakfast, 
and  was  not  surprised  to  see  McRueit  in  a  posture  of  absorbed 
attention  beside  a  lady.  His  stick  stood  on  the  floor,  and  with 
his  left  cheek  rested  on  the  gold  head,  he  was  gazing  into  her 
face,  and  evidently  keeping  her  perfectly  at  her  ease  as  to  the 
wants  and  gaps  of  conversation,  as  he  knew  how  to  do — for  he 
was  the  readiest  man  with  his  brick  and  mortar  whom  I  ever 
had  encountered. 

"Who  is  that  lady?"  I  asked  of  an  omni-acquainted  old 
bachelor  friend  of  mine. 

"Miss  Jonthee  Twitt — and  what  can  be  the  secret  of  that 
rather  exclusive  gentleman's  attention  to  her,  I  cannot  fancy." 

I  pulled  a  newspaper  from  my  pocket,  and  seating  myself  in 
one  of  the  deep  windows,  commenced  rather  a  compassionate 
study  of  Miss  Twitt — intending  fully,  if  I  should  find  her  inte- 
resting, to  save  her  from  the  clutches  of  my  detestable  classmate. 

She  was  a  slight,  hollow-chested,  consumptive-looking  girl, 
with  a  cast  of  features  that  any  casual  observer  would  be  certain 
to  describe  as  "  interesting."  With  the  first  two  minutes'  gaze 
upon  her,  my  sympathies  were  active  enough  for  a  crusade 
against  a  whole  army  of  connubial  tyrants.  I  suddenly  paused, 
however.  Something  McRueit  said  made  a  change  in  the  lady's 
countenance.  She  sat  just  as  still ;  she  did  not  move  her  head 
from  its  negligent  posture ;  her  eyebrows  did  not  contract ;  her 
lips  did  not  stir;  but  the  dull,  sickly-coloured  lids  descended 
calmly  and  fixedly  till  they  hid  from  sight  the  upper  edges  of 
the  pupils !  and  by  this  slight  but  infallible  sign  I  knew — but  the 
story  will  tell  what  I  knew.  Napoleon  was  nearly,  but  not  quite 
right,  when  he  said  that  there  was  no  reliance  to  be  placed  on 
peculiarities  of  feature  or  expression. 


THE    POWER    OF    AN    "INJURED    LOOK."  31 


CHAPTER  II. 

In  August  of  that  same  year,  I  followed  the  world  to  Saratoga. 
In  my  first  reconnoitre  of  the  drawing-room  of  Congress  Hall,  I 
caught  the  eye  of  Mr.  McRueit,  and  received  from  him  a  cordial 
salutation.  As  I  put  my  head  right,  upon  its  pivot,  after  an  easy 
nod  to  my  familiar  aversion,  my  eyes  fell  upon  Miss  Jonthee 
Twitt — that  was — for  I  had  seen,  in  the  newspapers  of  two 
months  before,  that  the  resolve  (born  of  the  dusty  slipper  outside 
her  door),  had  been  brought  about,  and  she  was  now  on  the 
irrevocable  side  of  a  honeymoon  sixty  days  old. 

Her  eyelid  was  down  upon  ilie  pupil — motionless,  concen- 
trated, and  vigilant  as  a  couched  panther — and  from  beneath 
the  hem  of  her  dress  curved  out  the  high  arched  instep  of  a  foot 
pointed  with  desperate  tension  to  the  carpet ;  the  little  great  toe 
(whose  relying  pressure  on  the  soiled  slipper  Mr.  McRueit  had 
been  captivated  by,)  now  rigid  with  as  strong  a  purpose  as 
spiritual  homoeopathy  could  concentrate  in  so  small  a  tenement. 
I  thought  I  would  make  Mr.  and  Mrs.  McRueit  the  subject  of 
quiet  study  while  I  remained  at  Saratoga. 

But  I  have  not  mentioned  the  immediate  cause  of  Mrs. 
McRueit's  resentment.  Her  bridegroom  was  walking  up  and 
down  the  room  with  a  certain  Mrs.  Wanmaker,  a  widow,  who 
was  a  better  woman  than  she  looked  to  be,  as  I  chanced  to 
know,  but  as  nobody  could  know  without  the  intimate  acquaint- 
ance with  Mrs.  Wanmaker  upon  which  I  base  this  remark. 
With  beauty  of  the  most  voluptuous  cast,  and  a  passion  for 
admiration  which  induced  her  to  throw  out  every  possible  lure 
to  men  any  way  worth  her  time  as  victims,  Mrs.  Wanmaker's 
blood  was  as  "  cold  as  the  flow  of  Iser,"  and  her  propriety,  in 
fact,  wholly  impregnable.  I  had  been  myself  "  tried  on"  by 
the  Widow  Wanmaker,  and  twenty  caravan-marches  might  have 
been  made  across  the  Desert  of  Sahara,  while  the  conviction  I 
have  just  stated  was  "  getting  through  my  hair."  It  was  not 
wonderful,  therefore,  that  both  the  bride  and  her  (usually)  most 


32  THE    GIFT. 

penetrations  bridegroom,  had  sailed  over  the  widow's  shallows, 
unconscious  of  soundings.  She  was  a  "  deep"  woman,  too — but 
not  in  the  love  line. 

I  thought  McRueit  singularly  off  his  guard,  if  it  were  only  for 
"appearances."  He  monopolized  the  widow  effectually,  and 
she  thought  it  worth  her  while  to  let  the  world  think  him  (a 
bridegroom  and  a  rising  young  politician,)  mad  for  her,  and, 
truth  to  say,  they  carried  on  the  war  strenuously.  Perfectly 
certain  as  I  was  that  "  the  whirligig  of  time"  would  "  bring 
about  the  revenges"  of  Mrs.  McRueit,  I  began  to  feel  a  mean- 
time pity  for  her,  and  had  myself  presented  duly  by  McRueit 
the  next  morning  after  breakfast. 

It  was  a  tepid,  flaccid,  reverie-coloured  August  morning,  and 
the  sole  thought  of  the  universe  seemed  to  be  to  sit  down.  The 
devotees  to  gaiety  and  mineral  water  dawdled  out  to  the  porti- 
coes, and  some  sat  on  chairs  under  the  trees,  and  the  dandies 
lay  on  the  grass,  and  the  old  ladies  on  the  steps  and  the  settees, 
and  here  and  there,  a  man  on  the  balustrade,  and,  in  the  large 
swing,  vis-a-vis,  sat  McRueit  and  the  Widow  Wanmaker,  chat- 
ting in  an  undertone  quite  inaudible.  Mrs.  McRueit  sat  on  a 
bench,  with  her  back  against  one  of  the  high-shouldered  pine 
trees  in  the  court-yard,  and  I  had  called  McRueit  out  of  his 
swing  to  present  me.  But  he  returned  immediately  to  the 
widow. 

I  thought  it  would  be  alleviative  and  good-natured  to  give 
Mrs.  McRueit  an  insight  to  the  harmlessness  of  Mrs.  Wan- 
maker,  and  I  had  done  so  very  nearly  to  my  satisfaction,  when 
I  discovered  that  the  slighted  wife  did  not  care  sixpence  about 
the  fact,  and  that,  unlike  Hamlet,  she  only  knew  seems.  The 
more  I  developed  the  innocent  object  of  the  widow's  outlay  of 
smiles  and  confidentialities,  the  more  Mrs.  McRueit  placed  her- 
self in  a  posture  to  be  remarked  by  the  loungers  in  the  court- 
yard and  the  dawdlers  on  the  portico,  and  the  more  she  deepened 
a  certain  look — you  must  imagine  it  for  the  present,  dear  reader. 
It  would  take  a  razor's  edge  of  analysis,  and  a  Flemish  paint- 
pot  and  patience  to  carve  that  injured  look  into  language,  or 


THE    POWER    OF   AN   "INJURED   LOOK."  33 

paint  it  truthfully  to  the  eye !  Juries  would  hang  husbands,  and 
recording  angels  "  ruthlessly  overcharge,"  upon  the  unsupported 
evidence  of  such  a  look.  She  looked  as  if  her  heart  must  have 
suffocated  with  forbearance  long  before  she  began  to  look  so. 
She  looked  as  if  she  had  forgiven  and  wept,  and  was  ready  to 
forgive  and  weep  again.  She  looked  as  if  she  would  give  her 
life  if  she  could  conceal  "  her  feelings,"  and  as  if  she  was 
nerving  soul,  and  heart,  and  eyelids,  and  lachrymatory  glands 
— all  to  agony — to  prevent  bursting  into  tears  with  her  unutter- 
able anguish !  It  was  the  most  unresisting,  unresentful,  patient, 
sweet  miserableness !  A  lamb's  willingness  to  "  furnish  forth 
another  meal"  of  chops  and  sweet-bread,  was  testy  to  such  meek 
endurance !  She  was  evidently  a  martyr,  a  victim,  a  crushed 
flower,  a  "  poor  thing !"  But  she  did,  now  and  then, — unseen 
by  any  body  but  me — give  a  glance  from  that  truncated  orb  of  a 
pupil  of  hers,  over  the  top  of  her  handkerchief,  that,  if  incar- 
nated, would  have  made  a  hole  in  the  hide  of  a  rhinoceros  !  It 
was  triumph,  venom,  implacability, — such  as  I  had  never  before 
seen  expressed  in  human  glances. 

There  are  many  persons  with  but  one  idea,  and  that  a  good 
one.  Mrs.  McRueit,  I  presume,  was  incapable  of  appreciating 
my  interest  in  her.  At  any  rate  she  played  the  same  game 
with  me  as  with  other  people,  and  managed  her  affairs  altogether 
with  perfect  unity.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  endeavoured  to  hear 
from  her  tongue  what  I  read  in  the  lowering  pupil  of  her  eye. 
She  spoke  of  McRueit  with  evident  reluctance,  but  always  with 
discretion — never  blaming  him,  nor  leaving  any  opening  that 
should  betray  resentment,  or  turn  the  current  of  sympathy  from 
herself.  The  result  was  immediate.  The  women  in  the  house 
began  to  look  black  upon  McRueit.  The  men  "sent  him  to 
Coventry"  more  unwillingly,  for  he  was  amusing  and  popular — 
but  "  to  Coventry"  he  went !  And  at  last  the  Widow  Wanmaker 
became  aware  that  she  was  wasting  her  time  on  a  man  whose 
attentions  were  not  wanted  elsewhere — and  she  (the  unkindest 
cut  of  all)  found  reasons  for  looking  •  another  way  when  he 
approached  her.  He  had  become  aware,  during  this  process, 

4 


34  THE    GIFT. 

what  was  "  in  the  wind,"  but  he  knew  too  much  to  stay  in  the 
public  eye  when  it  was  inflamed.  With  his  brows  lowering, 
and  his  face  gloomy  with  feelings  I  could  easily  interpret,  he 
took  the  early  coach  on  the  third  morning  after  my  introduction 
to  Mrs.  McRueit,  and  departed,  probably  for  a  discipline  trip, 
to  some  place  where  sympathy  with  his  wife  would  be  less 
dangerous. 


CHAPTER   III. 

I  think,  that  within  the  next  two  or  three  years,  I  heard 
McRueit's  name  mentioned  several  times,  or  saw  it  in  the 
papers,  connected  with  strong  political  movements.  I  had  no 
very  definite  idea  of  where  he  was  residing,  however.  Business 
called  me  to  a  western  county,  and  on  the  road  I  fell  into  the 
company  of  a  great  political  schemer  and  partisan— one  of  those 
joints,  (of  the  feline  political  body,)  the  next  remove  from  the 
"  cat's  paw."  Finding  that  I  cared  not  a  straw  for  politics,  and 
that  we  were  going  to  the  same  town,  he  undertook  the  blandish- 
ment of  an  overflow  of  confidence  upon  me,  probably  with  the 
remote  possibility  that  he  might  have  occasion  to  use  me.  I 
gave  in  to  it  so  far  as  courteously  to  receive  all  his  secrets,  and 
we  arrived  at  our  destination  excellent  friends. 

The  town  was  in  a  ferment  with  the  coming  election  of  a 
member  for  the  Legislature,  and  the  hotel  being  very  crowded, 
Mr.  Develin  (my  fellow-traveller)  and  myself  were  put  into  a 
double-bedded  room.  Busy  with  my  own  affairs,  I  saw  but  little 
of  him,  and  he  seemed  quite  too  much  occupied  for  conversation, 
till  the  third  night  after  our  arrival.  Lying  in  bed  with  the 
moonlight  streaming  into  the  room,  he  began  to  give  me  some 
account  of  the  campaign,  preparing  for,  around  us,  and  pre- 
sently mentioned  the  name  of  McRueit, — (the  name,  by  the  way, 
that  I  had  seen  upon  the  placards,  without  caring  particularly  to 
inquire  whether  or  not  it  was  "  mine  ancient"  aversion.) 

"  They  are  not  aware,"  said  Mr.  Develin,  after  talking  on  the 


THE    POWER    OF    AN    "INJURED    LOOK."  35 

subject  awhile,  "  that  this  petty  election,  is,  in  fact,  the  grain  of 
sand  that  is  to  turn  the  Presidential  scale.  If  McRueit  should 
be  elected,  (as  I  am  sorry  to  say  there  seems  every  chance  he 
will  be,)  Van  Buren's  doom  is  sealed.  I  have  come  a  little  too 
late  here.  I  should  have  had  time  to  know  something  more  of 
this  man  McRueit — " 

"  Perhaps  I  can  give  you  some  idea  of  him,"  interrupted  I, 
"  for  he  has  chanced  to  be  more  in  my  way  than  I  would  have 
bargained  for.  But  what  do  you  wish  to  know  particularly  ?" 
(I  spoke,  as  the  reader  will  see,  in  the  unsuspecting  innocence  of 
my  heart.) 

"  Oh — any  thing — any  thing!    Tell  me  all  you  know  of  him !" 

Mr.  Develin's  vividness  rather  surprised  me,  for  he  raised 
himself  on  his  elbow  in  bed — but  I  went  on  and  narrated  very 
much  what  I  have  put  down  for  the  reader  in  the  two  preceding 
chapters. 

"  How  do  you  spell  Mrs.  Wanmaker's  name  ?"  asked  my  im- 
bedded vis-a-vis,  as  I  stopped  and  turned  over  to  go  to  sleep. 

I  spelt  it  for  him. 

He  jumped  out  of  bed,  dressed  himself  and  left  the  room. 
Will  the  reader  permit  me  to  follow  him,  like  Asmodeus,  giving 
with  Asmodean  brevity  the  knowledge  I  afterwards  gained  of  his 
use  of  my  involuntary  revelation. 

Mr.  Develin  roused  the  active  member  of  the  Van  Buren  Com- 
mittee from  his  slumbers,  and  in  an  hour  had  the  printers  of  their 
party  paper  at  work  upon  a  placard.  A  large  meeting  was  to 
be  held  the  next  day  in  the  town  hall,  during  which  both  candi- 
dates, it  was  supposed,  would  address  the  people.  Ladies  were 
to  occupy  the  galleries.  The  hour  came  round.  Mrs.  McRueit's 
carriage  drove  into  the  village  a  few  minutes  before  eleven,  and 
as  she  stopped  at  a  shop  for  a  moment,  a  letter  was  handed  her 
by  a  boy.  She  sat  still  and  read  it.  She  was  alone.  Her  face 
turned  livid  with  paleness  after  its  first  flush,  and  forgetting  her 
errand  at  the  shop,  she  drove  on  to  the  town  hall.  She  took  her 
seat  in  a  prominent  part  of  the  gallery.  The  preliminaries  were 
gone  through  with,  and  her  husband  rose  to  speak.  He  was  a 


36  THE    GIFT. 

plausible  orator,  an  eloquent  man.  But  there  was  a  sentiment 
circulating  in  the  audience — something  whispered  from  man  to 
man — that  strangely  took  off  the  attention  of  the  audience.  He 
could  not,  as  he  had  never  before  found  difficulty  in  doing,  keep 
their  eyes  upon  his  lips.  JEvery  one  was  gazing  on  his  wife  ! 
And  there  she  sat, — with  her  INJURED  LOOK  ! — pale,  sad,  appa- 
rently striving  to  listen  and  conceal  her  mental  suffering.  It 
was  as  convincing  to  the  audience  of  the  truth  of  the  insinuation 
that  was  passing  from  mouth  to  mouth — as  convincing  as  would 
have  been  a  revelation  from  heaven.  McRueit  followed  the 
many  upturned  eyes  at  last,  and  saw  that  they  were  bent  on  his 
wife,  and  that — once  more — after  years  of  conciliation,  she  wore 
THAT  INJURED  LOOK  !  His  heart  failed  him.  He  evidently 
comprehended  that  the  spirit  that  had  driven  him  from  Saratoga, 
years  before — popular  sympathy  with  women — had  overtaken 
him  and  was  plotting  against  him  once  more.  His  speech  began 
to  lose  its  concentration.  He  talked  wide.  The  increasing  noise 
overpowered  him,  and  he  descended  at  last  from  the  platform 
in  the  midst  of  a  universal  hiss.  The  other  candidate  rose  and 
spoke ;  and  at  the  close  of  his  speech  the  meeting  broke  up,  and 
as  they  dispersed,  their  eyes  were  met  at  every  corner  with  a 
large  placard,  in  which  "injured  wife,"  "unfaithful  husband," 
"  Widow  W — n — k — r,"  were  the  words  in  prominent  capitals. 
The  election  came  on  the  next  day,  and  Mr.  McRueit  being  sig- 
nally defeated,  Mr.  Van  Buren's  election  to  the  Presidency  (if 
Mr.  Develin  knew  any  thing)  was  made  certain — brought  about 
by  a  woman's  INJURED  LOOK  ! 

My  business  in  the  county  was  the  purchase  of  land,  and  for 
a  year  or  two  afterwards,  I  was  a  great  deal  there.  Feeling 
that  I  had  unintentionally  furnished  a  weapon  to  his  enemies,  I 
did  penance  by  cultivating  McRueit.  I  went  often  to  his  house. 
He  was  at  first  a  good  deal  broken  up  by  the  sudden  check  to  his 
ambition,  but  he  rallied  with  a  change  in  his  character  for  which 
I  was  not  prepared.  He  gave  up  all  antagonism  towards  his 
wife.  He  assumed  a  new  manner  to  her.  She  had  been  skil- 
fully managed  before — but  he  took  her  now  confidingly  behind 


THE    POWER    OF    AN    "INJURED    LOOK."  37 

his  shield.  He  felt  overmastered  by  the  key  she  had  to  popular 
sympathy,  and  he  determined  wisely  to  make  it  turn  in  his 
favour.  By  assiduity,  by  tenderness,  childlikeness,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  completely  convincing  her  that  he  had  but  one  out-of- 
doors'  wish — that  of  embellishing  her  existence  by  his  success. 
The  effect  on  her  was  marvellous.  She  recovered  her  health, 
gradually  changed  to  a  joyous  and  earnest  promoter  of  her  hus- 
band's interests,  and  they  were  soon  a  marked  model  in  the 
county  for  conjugal  devotion.  The  popular  impression  soon 
gained  ground  that  Mr.  McRueit  had  been  shamefully  wronged 
by  the  previous  prejudice  against  his  character  as  a  husband. 
The  tide  that  had  already  turned,  soon  swelled  to  a  flood,  and 
Mr.  McRueit  now — but  Mr.  McRueit  is  too  powerful  a  person  in 
the  present  Government  to  follow  any  farther.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  he  might  return  to  Mrs.  Wanmaker  and  his  old  courses  if 
he  liked — for  his  wife's  INJURED  LOOK  is  entirely  fattened  out  of 
possibility  by  her  happiness.  She  weighs  two  hundred,  and 
could  no  more  look  injured  than  Sir  John  Falstaff. 


GOING  HOME. 


BY  C.  P.  CRANCH. 

GOING  home — going  home  ! 

There  is  music  in  the  word, 
Such  as  those  who  never  roam, 

Never  yet  have  heard. 
I  have  sung  it  to  my  heart, 

Which  has  sung  it  back  to  me, 
Till  my  lips  must  bear  their  part 

In  the  harmony, 
Singing  all  in  one, 
Going  home,  going  home ! 

Going  home — from  careless  looks, 

From  eyes  that  glance  and  turn  away, 
From  lips  that  speak  like  formal  books, 

Or  mean  not  what  they  say  ; 
Once  more  to  hear  our  Christian  name, 

Where  studied  speech  is  never  known  ; 
And  make  around  the  twilight  flame 

A  kingdom  of  our  own, 
Saying  as  we  sit — 
This  is  home — this  is  home  ! 

Going  home — from  cheerless  places, 

By  no  affections  sanctified, 
To  the  circle  of  dear  faces, 

Round  our  own  fireside  ; 


GOING    HOME.  39 

To  each  well-remembered  room, 

To  all  old  familiar  things, 
Leaving  all  that  speaks  of  gloom, 
Still  my  spirit  sings, 
And  my  lips  repeat — 
Going  home,  going  home  ! 

Are  we,  are  we  going  home  1 

Or  is  it  but  a  lovely  dream  1 
Will  that  time,  long  looked  for,  come, 

And  bear  me  on  its  stream  ? 
Parents,  brothers,  sisters  all, 

Shall  we  meet  as  once  we  met, 
In  the  old  paternal  hall, 

We  can  ne'er  forget, 
All  once  more  to  sing, 
This  is  home — this  is  home  ! 

Yes,  my  heart,  we're  going  home — 

Home  to  kindred  eyes  and  voices  ,* 
Pilgrim  seeing  distant  Rome, 

Never  so  rejoices, 
As  to-morrow  thou  and  I, 

Leaving  stranger  hearts  behind, 
Homeward  with  the  spring  to  fly, 

Like  the  free-born  wind, 
Singing  as  we  fly, 
Going  home — going  home ! 


THE  NECKLACE. 


BY  ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 

WHY  bends  she  o'er  that  glittering  toy, 
With  such  an  earnest  gaze, 

As  if  those  flashing  jewels  cast 
Love-glances  in  their  rays  1 

By  that  high  thought-enthroned  brow — 

That  deep  and  soul-lit  eye, 
I  know  'tis  not  the  passing  dream 

Of  woman's  vanity. 

I  know  that  in  its  golden  links 

Some  talisman  is  set, 
And  for  the  heart  it  rests  upon, 

'Tis  Love's  own  amulet. 

Oh  may  that  heart  so  joyous  now, 

No  heavier  burden  bear ; 
The  beauty  of  that  noble  brow, 

No  deeper  shadow  wear. 

Alas  !  how  vain  the  wish,  for  souls 
That  wildest  rapture  know, 

Must  vibrate  with  a  keener  pang, 
To  every  note  of  woe. 


C  R  Leslie  R  A 


THE  PURLOINED  LETTER. 


BY   EDGAR    A.    POE. 


AT  Paris,  just  after  dark  one  gusty  evening  in  the  autumn  of 
18 — ,  I  was  enjoying  the  twofold  luxury  of  meditation  and  a 
meerschaum,  in  company  with  my  friend  C.  Auguste  Dupin,  in 
his  little  back  library,  or  book-closet,  au  troisiime,  No.  33,  Rue 
Dunot,  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  For  one  hour  at  least  we  had 
maintained  a  profound  silence;  while  each,  to  any  casual  ob- 
server, might  have  seemed  intently  and  exclusively  occupied 
with  the  curling  eddies  of  smoke  that  oppressed  the  atmosphere 
of  the  chamber.  For  myself,  however,  I  was  mentally  discuss- 
ing certain  topics  which  had  formed  matter  for  conversation 
between  us  at  an  earlier  period  of  the  evening ;  I  mean  the  affair 
of  the  Rue  Morgue,  and  the  mystery  attending  the  murder  of 
Marie  Roget.  I  looked  upon  it,  therefore,  as  something  of  a 
coincidence,  when  the  door  of  our  apartment  was  thrown  open 

and  admitted  our  old  acquaintance,  Monsieur  G ,  the  Prefect 

of  the  Parisian  police. 

We  gave  him  a  hearty  welcome ;  for  there  was  nearly  half  as 
much  of  the  entertaining  as  of  the  contemptible  about  the  man, 
and  we  had  not  seen  him  for  several  years.  We  had  been 
sitting  in  the  dark,  and  Dupin  now  arose  for  the  purpose  of 
lighting  a  lamp,  but  sat  down  again,  without  doing  so,  upon  G.'s 
saying  that  he  had  called  to  consult  us,  or  rather  to  ask  the 
opinion  of  my  friend,  about  some  official  business  which  had 
occasioned  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 


42  THE    GIFT. 

"  If  it  is  any  point  requiring  reflection,"  observed  Dupin,  as 
he  forbore  to  enkindle  the  wick,  "  we  shall  examine  it  to  better 
purpose  in  the  dark." 

"  That  is  another  of  your  odd  notions,"  said  the  Prefect, 
who  had  a  fashion  of  calling  every  thing  "  odd"  that  was  beyond 
his  comprehension,  and  thus  lived  amid  an  absolute  legion  of 
"  oddities." 

"  Very  true,"  said  Dupin,  as  he  supplied  his  visiter  with  a 
pipe,  and  rolled  towards  him  a  very  comfortable  chair. 

"  And  what  is  the  difficulty  now  ?"  I  asked.  "  Nothing  more 
in  the  assassination  way,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Oh  no ;  nothing  of  that  nature.  The  fact  is,  the  business  is 
very  simple  indeed,  and  I  make  no  doubt  that  we  can  manage  it 
sufficiently  well  ourselves  ;  but  then  I  thought  Dupin  would  like 
to  hear  the  details  of  it,  because  it  is  so  excessively  odd." 

"  Simple  and  odd,"  said  Dupin. 

"  Why,  yes ;  and  not  exactly  that,  either.  The  fact  is,  we 
have  all  been  a  good  deal  puzzled  because  the  affair  is  so  simple, 
and  yet  baffles  us  altogether." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  the  very  simplicity  of  the  thing  which  puts  you 
at  fault,"  said  my  friend. 

"  What  nonsense  you  do  talk !"  replied  the  Prefect,  laughing 
heartily. 

"  Perhaps  the  mystery  is  a  little  too  plain,"  said  Dupin. 

"  Oh,  good  heavens  !  who  ever  heard  of  such  an  idea?" 

"  A  little  too  self-evident." 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha ! — ha  !  ha !  ha ! — ho !  ho !  ho !"  roared  out  our 
visiter,  profoundly  amused,  "  oh,  Dupin,  you  will  be  the  death  of 
me  yet !" 

"  And  what,  after  all,  is  the  matter  on  hand  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Why,  I  will  tell  you,"  replied  the  Prefect,  as  he  gave  a  long, 
steady,  and  contemplative  puff,  and  settled  himself  in  his  chair. 
"  I  will  tell  you  in  a  few  words  ;  but,  before  I  begin,  let  me 
caution  you  that  this  is  an  affair  demanding  the  greatest  secrecy, 
and  that  I  should  most  probably  lose  the  position  I  now  hold, 
were  it  known  that  I  confided  it  to  any  one." 


THE    PURLOINED    LETTER.  43 

"  Proceed,"  said  I. 

"  Or  not,"  said  Dupin. 

"  Well,  then ;  I  have  received  personal  information,  from  a 
very  high  quarter,  that  a  certain  document  of  the  last  importance, 
has  been  purloined  from  the  royal  apartments.  The  individual 
who  purloined  it  is  known ;  this  beyond  a  doubt ;  he  was  seen 
to  take  it.  It  is  known,  also,  that  it  still  remains  in  his  pos- 
session." 

"  How  is  this  known  ?"  asked  Dupin. 

"It  is  clearly  inferred,"  replied  the  Prefect,  " from  the  nature 
of  the  document,  and  from  the  non-appearance  of  certain  results 
which  would  at  once  arise  from  its  passing  out  of  the  robber's 
possession ; — that  is  to  say,  from  his  employing  it  as  he  must 
design  in  the  end  to  employ  it." 

"  Be  a  little  more  explicit,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  I  may  venture  so  far  as  to  say  that  the  paper  gives  its 
holder  a  certain  power  in  a  certain  quarter  where  such  power  is 
immensely  valuable."  The  Prefect  was  fond  of  the  cant  of 
diplomacy. 

"  Still  I  do  not  quite  understand,"  said  Dupin. 

"  No?  Well ;  the  disclosure  of  the  document  to  a  third  person, 
who  shall  be  nameless,  would  bring  in  question  the  honour  of  a 
personage  of  most  exalted  station  ;  and  this  fact  gives  the  holder 
of  the  document  an  ascendancy  over  the  illustrious  personage 
whose  honour  and  peace  are  so  jeopardized." 

"  But  this  ascendancy,"  I  interposed,  "  would  depend  upon 
the  robber's  knowledge  of  the  loser's  knowledge  of  the  robber. 
Who  would  dare—" 

"  The  thief,"  said  G,  "  is  the — Minister  D ,  who  dares 

all  things,  those  unbecoming  as  well  as  those  becoming  a  man. 
The  method  of  the  theft  was  not  less  ingenious  than  bold. 
The  document  in  question-^-a  letter,  to  be  frank — had  been 
received  by  the  personage  robbed  while  alone  in  the  royal 
boudoir.  During  its  perusal  she  was  suddenly  interrupted  by 
the  entrance  of  the  other  exalted  personage  from  whom  espe- 


44  THE    GIFT. 

cially  it  was  her  wish  to  conceal  it.  After  a  hurried  and  vain 
endeavour  to  thrust  it  in  a  drawer,  she  was  forced  to  place  it, 
open  as  it  was,  upon  a  table.  The  address,  however,  was  upper- 
most, and  the  contents  thus  unexposed,  the  letter  escaped  notice. 
At  this  juncture  enters  the  Minister  D .  His  lynx  eye  imme- 
diately perceives  the  paper,  recognises  the  handwriting  of  the 
address,  observes  the  confusion  of  the  personage  addressed,  and 
fathoms  her  secret.  After  some  business  transactions,  hurried 
through  in  his  ordinary  manner,  he  produces  a  letter  somewhat 
similar  to  the  one  in  question,  opens  it,  pretends  to  read  it,  and 
then  places  it  in  close  juxtaposition  to  the  other.  Again  he  con- 
verses, for  some  fifteen  minutes,  upon  the  public  affairs.  At 
length,  in  taking  leave,  he  takes  also  from  the  table  the  letter  to 
which  he  had  no  claim.  Its  rightful  owner  saw,  but,  of  course, 
dared  not  call  attention  to  the  act,  in  the  presence  of  the  third 
personage  who  stood  at  her  elbow.  The  minister  decamped ; 
leaving  his  own  letter — one  of  no  importance — upon  the  table." 

"  Here,  then,"  said  Dupin  to  me,  "  you  have  precisely  what 
you  demand  to  make  the  ascendancy  complete — the  robber's 
knowledge  of  the  loser's  knowledge  of  the  robber." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Prefect ;  "  and  the  power  thus  attained 
has,  for  some  months  past,  been  wielded,  for  political  purposes, 
to  a  very  dangerous  extent.  The  personage  robbed  is  more 
thoroughly  convinced,  every  day,  of  the  necessity  of  reclaiming 
her  letter.  But  this,  of  course,  cannot  be  done  openly.  In  fine, 
driven  to  despair,  she  has  committed  the  matter  to  me." 

"  Than  whom,"  said  Dupin,  amid  a  perfect  whirlwind  of 
smoke,  "  no  more  sagacious  agent  could,  I  suppose,  be  desired, 
or  even  imagined." 

"  You  flatter  me,"  replied  the  Prefect ;  "  but  it  is  possible  that 
some  such  opinion  may  have  been  entertained." 

"  It  is  clear,"  said  I,  "  as  you  observe,  that  the  letter  is  still  in 
possession  of  the  minister ;  since  it  is  this  possession,  and  not 
any  employment,  of  the  letter,  which  bestows  the  power.  With 
the  employment  the  power  departs." 


THE    PURLOINED    LETTER.  45 

"  True,"  said  G ;  "  and  upon  this  conviction  I  proceeded. 

My  first  care  was  to  make  thorough  search  of  the  minister's 
hotel ;  and  here  my  chief  embarrassment  lay  in  the  necessity  of 
searching  without  his  knowledge.  Beyond  all  things,  I  have 
been  warned  of  the  danger  which  would  result  from  giving  him 
reason  to  suspect  our  design." 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  you  are  quite  au  fait  in  these  investigations. 
The  Parisian  police  have  done  this  thing  often  before." 

"  O  yes ;  and  for  this  reason  I  did  not  despair.  The  habits  of 
the  minister  gave  me,  too,  a  great  advantage.  He  is  frequently 
absent  from  home  all  night.  His  servants  are  by  no  means 
numerous.  They  sleep  at  a  distance  from  their  master's  apart- 
ments, and,  being  chiefly  Neapolitans,  are  readily  made  drunk. 
I  have  keys,  as  you  know,  with  which  I  can  open  any  chamber 
or  cabinet  in  Paris.  For  three  months  a  night  has  not  passed, 
during  the  greater  part  of  which  I  have  not  been  engaged,  per- 
sonally, in  ransacking  the  D Hotel.  My  honour  is  inte- 
rested, and,  to  mention  a  great  secret,  the  reward  is  enormous. 
So  I  did  not  abandon  the  search  until  I  had  become  fully  satisfied 
that  the  thief  is  a  more  astute  man  than  myself.  I  fancy  that  I 
have  investigated  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  premises  in  which 
it  is  possible  that  the  paper  can  be  concealed." 

"  But  is  it  not  possible,"  I  suggested,  "  that  although  the 
letter  may  be  in  possession  of  the  minister,  as  it  unquestionably 
is,  he  may  have  concealed  it  elsewhere  than  upon  his  own 
premises  ?" 

"  This  is  barely  possible,"  said  Dupin.  "  The  present  pecu- 
liar condition  of  affairs  at  court,  and  especially  of  those  intrigues 

in  which  D is  known  to  be  involved,  would  render  the 

instant  availability  of  the  document — its  susceptibility  of  being 
produced  at  a  moment's  notice — a  point  of  nearly  equal  impor- 
tance with  its  possession." 

"  Its  susceptibility  of  being  produced  T'  said  I. 

"  That  is  to  say,  of  being  destroyed"  said  Dupin. 

"True,"  I  observed;  "the  paper  is  clearly  then  upon  the 

5 


46  THE    GIFT. 

premises.  As  for  its  being  upon  the  person  of  the  minister,  we 
may  consider  that  as  out  of  the  question." 

"  Entirely,"  said  the  Prefect.  "  He  has  been  twice  waylaid, 
as  if  by  footpads,  and  his  person  rigorously  searched  under  my 
own  inspection." 

"  You  might  have  spared  yourself  this  trouble,"  said  Dupin. 

"  D ,  I  presume,  is  not  altogether  a  fool,  and,  if  not,  must 

have  anticipated  these  waylayings,  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"Not  altogether  a  fool,"  said  G ,  "  but  then  he's  a  poet, 

which  I  take  to  be  only  one  remove  from  a  fool." 

"  True ;"  said  Dupin,  after  a  long  and  thoughtful  whiff  from 
his  meerschaum, "  although  I  have  been  guilty  of  certain  doggrel 
myself." 

"  Suppose  you  detail,"  said  I,  "  the  particulars  of  your 
search." 

"  Why  the  fact  is,  we  took  our  time,  and  we  searched  every 
where.  I  have  had  long  experience  in  these  affairs.  I  took  the 
entire  building,  room  by  room ;  devoting  the  nights  of  a  whole 
week  to  each.  We  examined,  first,  the  furniture  of  each  apart- 
ment. We  opened  every  possible  drawer ;  and  I  presume  you 
know  that,  to  a  properly  trained  police  agent,  such  a  thing  as  a 
secret  drawer  is  impossible.  Any  man  is  a  dolt  who  permits  a 
4  secret'  drawer  to  escape  him  in  a  search  of  this  kind.  The 
thing  is  so  plain.  There  is  a  certain  amount  of  bulk — of  space 
— to  be  accounted  for  in  every  cabinet.  Then  we  have  accurate 
rules.  The  fiftieth  part  of  a  line  could  not  escape  us.  After 
the  cabinets  we  took  the  chairs.  The  cushions  we  probed  with 
the  fine  long  needles  you  have  seen  me  employ.  From  the 
tables  we  removed  the  tops." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Sometimes  the  top  of  a  table,  or  other  similarly  arranged 
piece  of  furniture,  is  removed  by  the  person  wishing  to  conceal 
an  article ;  then  the  leg  is  excavated,  the  article  deposited  within 
the  cavity,  and  the  top  replaced.  The  bottoms  and  tops  of  bed- 
posts are  employed  in  the  same  way." 


THE    PURLOINED    LETTER.  47 

"  But  could  not  the  cavity  be  detected  by  sounding  ?"  I  asked. 

"  By  no  means,  if,  when  the  article  is  deposited,  a  sufficient 
wadding  of  cotton  be  placed  around  it.  Besides,  in  our  case,  we 
were  obliged  to  proceed  without  noise." 

"  But  you  could  not  have  removed — you  could  not  have  taken 
to  pieces  all  articles  of  furniture  in  which  it  would  have  been 
possible  to  make  a  deposit  in  the  manner  you  mention.  A  letter 
may  be  compressed  into  a  thin  spiral  roll,  not  differing  much  in 
shape  or  bulk  from  a  large  knitting-needle,  and  in  this  form 
it  might  be  inserted  into  the  rung  of  a  chair,  for  example.  You 
did  not  take  to  pieces  all  the  chairs  ?" 

"  Certainly  not ;  but  we  did  better — we  examined  the  rungs  of 
every  chair  in  the  hotel,  and,  indeed,  the  jointings  of  every  de- 
scription of  furniture,  by  the  aid  of  a  most  powerful  microscope. 
Had  there  been  any  traces  of  recent  disturbance  we  should  not 
have  failed  to  detect  it  instanter.  A  single  grain  of  gimlet-dust, 
or  saw-dust,  for  example,  would  have  been  as  obvious  as  an 
apple.  Any  disorder  in  the  glueing — any  unusual  gaping  in  the 
joints — would  have  sufficed  to  insure  detection." 

"  Of  course  you  looked  to  the  mirrors,  between  the  boards  and 
the  plates,  and  you  probed  the  beds  and  the  bed-clothes,  as  well 
as  the  curtains  and  carpets." 

"  That  of  course ;  and  when  we  had  absolutely  completed 
every  particle  of  the  furniture  in  this  way,  then  we  examined  the 
house  itself.  We  divided  its  entire  surface  into  compartments, 
which  we  numbered,  so  that  none  might  be  missed;  then  we 
scrutinized  each  individual  square  inch  throughout  the  premises, 
including  the  two  houses  immediately  adjoining,  with  the  micro- 
scope, as  before." 

"  The  two  houses  adjoining !"  I  exclaimed ;  "  you  must  have 
had  a  great  deal  of  trouble." 

"  We  had ;  but  the  reward  offered  is  prodigious." 

"  You  include  the  grounds  about  the  houses  ?" 

"  All  the  grounds  are  paved  with  brick.  They  gave  us  com- 
paratively little  trouble.  We  examined  the  moss  between  the 
bricks,  and  found  it  undisturbed." 


48  THE    GIFT. 

"  And  the  roofs  ?" 

"  We  surveyed  every  inch  of  the  external  surface,  and  probed 
carefully  beneath  every  tile." 

"  You  looked  among  D 's  papers,  of  course,  and  into  the 

books  of  the  library?" 

"  Certainly ;  we  opened  every  package  and  parcel ;  we  not 
only  opened  every  book,  but  we  turned  over  every  leaf  in  each 
volume,  not  contenting  ourselves  with  a  mere  shake,  according 
to  the  fashion  of  some  of  our  police  officers.  We  also  measured 
the  thickness  of  every  book-cover,  with  the  most  accurate  ad- 
measurement, and  applied  to  them  the  most  jealous  scrutiny  of 
the  microscope.  Had  any  of  the  bindings  been  recently  meddled 
with,  it  would  have  been  utterly  impossible  that  the  fact  should 
have  escaped  observation.  Some  five  or  six  volumes,  just  from 
the  hands  of  the  binder,  we  carefully  probed,  longitudinally,  with 
the  needles." 

"  You  explored  the  floors  beneath  the  carpets  ?" 

"Beyond  doubt.  We  removed  every  carpet,  and  examined 
the  boards  with  the  microscope." 

"  And  the  paper  on  the  walls  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  looked  into  the  cellars  ?" 

"  We  did ;  and,  as  time  and  labour  were  no  objects,  we  dug 
up  every  one  of  them  to  the  depth  of  four  feet." 

"  Then,"  I  said,  "  you  have  been  making  a  miscalculation, 
and  the  letter  is  not  upon  the  premises,  as  you  suppose." 

"  I  fear  you  are  right  there,"  said  the  Prefect.  "  And  now, 
Dupin,  what  would  you  advise  me  to  do  ?" 

"  To  make  a  thorough  re-search  of  the  premises." 

"  That  is  absolutely  needless,"  replied  G .  "  I  am  not 

more  sure  that  I  breathe  than  I  am  that  the  letter  is  not  at  the 
Hotel." 

"  I  have  no  better  advice  to  give  you,"  said  Dupin.  "  You 
have,  of  course,  an  accurate  description  of  the  letter?" 

"  Oh  yes  !" — And  here  the  Prefect,  producing  a  memorandum- 
book,  proceeded  to  read  aloud  a  minute  account  of  the  internal, 


THE    PURLOINED    LETTER.  49 

and  especially  of  the  external,  appearance  of  the  missing  docu- 
ment. Soon  after  finishing  the  perusal  of  this  description,  he 
took  his  departure,  more  entirely  depressed  in  spirits  than  I  had 
ever  known  the  good  gentleman  before. 

In  about  a  month  afterwards  he  paid  us  another  visit,  and 
found  us  occupied  very  nearly  as  before.  He  took  a  pipe  and  a 
chair,  and  entered  into  some  ordinary  conversation.  At  length 
I  said, — 

"Well,  but  G ,  what  of  the  purloined  letter?  I  presume 

you  have  at  last  made  up  your  mind  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  overreaching  the  Minister  ?' 

"  Confound  him,  say  I — yes ;  I  made  the  re-examination,  how- 
ever, as  Dupin  suggested — but  it  was  all  labour  lost,  as  I  knew 
it  would  be." 

"  How  much  was  the  reward  offered,  did  you  say  ?"  asked 
Dupin. 

"  Why,  a  very  great  deal — a  very  liberal  reward — I  don't  like 
to  say  how  much,  precisely ;  but  one  thing  I  will  say,  that  I 
wouldn't  mind  giving  my  individual  check  for  fifty  thousand 
francs  to  any  one  who  could  obtain  me  that  letter.  The  fact  is, 
it  is  becoming  of  more  and  more  importance  every  day ;  and  the 
reward  has  been  lately  doubled.  If  it  were  trebled,  however,  I 
could  do  no  more  than  I  have  done." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Dupin,  drawlingly,  between  the  whiffs  of 

his  meerschaum,  "  I  really — think,  G ,  you  have  not  exerted 

yourself — to  the  utmost  in  this  matter.  You  might — do  a  little 
more,  I  think,  eh  ?" 

"  How  ? — in  what  way  ?" 

"Why — puff,  puff — you  might — puff,  puff — employ  counsel 
in  the  matter,  eh  ? — puff,  puff,  puff.  Do  you  remember  the  story 
they  tell  of  Abernethy  ?" 

"  No ;  hang  Abernethy !" 

"  To  be  sure !  hang  him  and  welcome.  But,  once  upon  a 
time,  a  certain  rich  miser  conceived  the  design  of  spunging  upon 
this  Abernethy  for  a  medical  opinion.  Getting  up,  for  this  pur- 

5* 


50  THE    GIFT. 

pose,  an  ordinary  conversation  in  a  private  company,  he  insinu- 
ated his  case  to  the  physician,  as  that  of  an  imaginary  individual. 

"  *  We  will  suppose,'  said  the  miser,  '  that  his  symptoms  are 
such  and  such ;  now,  doctor,  what  would  you  have  directed  him 
to  take  V 

"  '  Take  !'  said  Abernethy,  <  why,  take  advice,  to  be  sure.' ': 

"  But,"  said  the  Prefect,  a  little  discomposed,  "  I  am  perfectly 
willing  to  take  advice,  and  to  pay  for  it.  I  would  really  give 
fifty  thousand  francs,  every  centime  of  it,  to  any  one  who  would 
aid  me  in  the  matter !" 

"  In  that  case,"  replied  Dupin,  opening  a  drawer,  and  pro- 
ducing a  check-book,  "  you  may  as  wrell  fill  me  up  a  check  for 
the  amount  mentioned.  When  you  have  signed  it,  I  will  hand 
you  the  letter." 

I  was  astounded.  The  Prefect  appeared  absolutely  thunder- 
stricken.  For  some  minutes  he  remained  speechless  and  mo- 
tionless, looking  incredulously  at  my  friend  with  open  mouth, 
and  eyes  that  seemed  starting  from  their  sockets ;  then,  appa- 
rently recovering  himself  in  some  measure,  he  seized  a  pen,  and 
after  several  pauses  and  vacant  stares,  finally  filled  up  and 
signed  a  check  for  fifty  thousand  francs,  and  handed  it  across 
the  table  to  Dupin.  The  latter  examined  it  carefully  and  de- 
posited it  in  his  pocket-book ;  then,  unlocking  an  escritoire,  took 
thence  a  letter  and  gave  it  to  the  Prefect.  This  functionary 
grasped  it  in  a  perfect  agony  of  joy,  opened  it  with  a  trembling 
hand,  cast  a  rapid  glance  at  its  contents,  and  then,  scrambling 
and  struggling  to  the  door,  .rushed  at  length  unceremoniously 
from  the  room  and  from  the  house,  without  having  uttered  a  soli- 
tary syllable  since  Dupin  had  requested  him  to  fill  up  the  check. 

When  he  had  gone,  my  friend  entered  into  some  explanations. 

"  The  Parisian  police,"  he  said,  "  are  exceedingly  able  in 
their  way.  They  are  persevering,  ingenious,  cunning,  and  tho- 
roughly versed  in  the  knowledge  which  their  duties  seem  chiefly 

to  demand.  Thus,  when  G detailed  to  us  his  mode  of 

searching  the  premises  at  the  Hotel  D ,  I  felt  entire  confi- 


THE    PURLOINED  LETTER.  51 

dence  in  his  having  made  a  satisfactory  investigation — so  far  as 
his  labours  extended." 

"  So  far  as  his  labours  extended  ?"  said  I. 

"  Yes,"  said  Dupin.  "  The  measures  adopted  were  not  only 
the  best  of  their  kind,  but  carried  out  to  absolute  perfection. 
Had  the  letter  been  deposited  within  the  range  of  their  search, 
these  fellows  would,  beyond  a  question,  have  found  it." 

I  merely  laughed — but  he  seemed  quite  serious  in  all  that  he 
said. 

"The  measures,  then,"  he  continued,  "were  good  in  their 
kind,  and  well  executed ;  their  defect  lay  in  their  being  inappli- 
cable to  the  case,  and  to  the  man.  A  certain  set  of  highly  inge- 
nious resources  are,  with  the  Prefect,  a  sort  of  Procrustean  bed, 
to  which  he  forcibly  adapts  his  designs.  But  he  perpetually 
errs  by  being  too  deep  or  too  shallow,  for  the  matter  in  hand ; 
and  many  a  schoolboy  is  a  better  reasoner  than  he.  I  knew 
one  about  eight  years  of  age,  whose  success  at  guessing  in  the 
game  of  '  even  and  odd'  attracted  universal  admiration.  This 
game  is  simple,  and  is  played  with  marbles.  One  player  holds 
in  his  hand  a  number  of  these  toys,  and  demands  of  another 
whether  that  number  is  even  or  odd.  If  the  guess  is  right,  the 
guesser  wins  one ;  if  wrong,  he  loses  one.  The  boy  to  whom  I 
allude  won  all  the  marbles  of  the  school.  Of  course  he  had  some 
principle  of  guessing;  and  this  lay  in  mere  observation  and 
admeasurement  of  the  astuteness  of  his  opponents.  For  example, 
an  arrant  simpleton  is  his  opponent,  and,  holding  up  his  closed 
hand,  asks,  '  are  they  even  or  odd  ?'  Our  schoolboy  replies, 
4  odd,'  and  loses ;  but  upon  the  second  trial  he  wins,  for  he  then 
says  to  himself,  '  the  simpleton  had  them  even  upon  the  first 
trial,  and  his  amount  of  cunning  is  just  sufficient  to  make  him 
have  them  odd  upon  the  second ;  I  will  therefore  guess  odd ;' — 
he  guesses  odd,  and  wins.  Now,  with  a  simpleton  a  degree 
above  the  first,  he  would  have  reasoned  thus :  <  this  fellow  finds 
that  in  the  first  instance  I  guessed  odd,  and,  in  the  second,  he 
will  propose  to  himself,  upon  the  first  impulse,  a  simple  variation 
from  even  to  odd,  as  did  the  first  simpleton ;  but  then  a  second 


52  THE    GIFT. 

thought  will  suggest  that  this  is  too  simple  a  variation,  and 
finally  he  will  decide  upon  putting  it  even  as  before.  I  will 
therefore  guess  even ;' — he  guesses  even,  and  wins.  Now  this 
mode  of  reasoning  in  the  schoolboy,  whom  his  fellows  termed 
'lucky,' — what,  in  its  last  analysis,  is  it?" 

"  It  is  merely,"  I  said,  "  an  identification  of  the  reasoner's 
intellect  with  that  of  his  opponent." 

"  It  is,"  said  Dupin ;  "  and,  upon  inquiring  of  the  boy  by 
what  means  he  effected  the  thorough  identification  in  which  his 
success  consisted,  I  received  answer  as  follows  :  i  When  I  wish 
to  find  out  how  wise,  or  how  stupid,  or  how  good,  or  how  wicked 
is  any  one,  or  what  are  his  thoughts  at  the  moment,  I  fashion 
the  expression  of  my  face,  as  accurately  as  possible,  in  accord- 
ance with  the  expression  of  his,  and  then  wait  to  see  what 
thoughts  or  sentiments  arise  in  my  mind  or  heart,  as  if  to  match 
or  correspond  with  the  expression.'  This  response  of  the  school- 
boy lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  spurious  profundity  which  has 
been  attributed  to  Rochefoucault,  to  La  Bougive,  to  Machiavelli, 
and  to  Campanella." 

"  And  the  identification,"  I  said,  "  of  the  reasoner's  intellect 
with  that  of  his  opponent,  depends,  if  I  understand  you  aright, 
upon  the  accuracy  with  which  the  opponent's  intellect  is  admea- 
sured." 

"  For  its  practical  value  it  depends  upon  this,"  replied  Dupin  ; 
"and  the  Prefect  and  his  cohort  fail  so  frequently,  first,  by  de- 
fault of  this  identification,  and,  secondly,  by  ill -admeasurement, 
or  rather  through  non-admeasurement,  of  the  intellect  with 
which  they  are  engaged.  They  consider  only  their  own  ideas 
of  ingenuity ;  and,  in  searching  for  any  thing  hidden,  advert 
only  to  the  modes  in  which  they  would  have  hidden  it.  They 
are  right  in  this  much — that  their  own  ingenuity  is  a  faithful 
representative  of  that  of  the.  mass  ;  but  when  the  cunning  of 
the  individual  felon  is  diverse  in  character  from  their  own,  the 
felon  foils  them,  of  course.  This  always  happens  when  it  is 
above  their  own,  and  very  usually  when  it  is  below.  They 
have  no  variation  of  principle  in  their  investigations ;  at  best, 


THE    PURLOINED    LETTER.  53 

when  urged  by  some  unusual  emergency — by  some  extraordi- 
nary reward — they  extend  or  exaggerate  their  old  modes  of 
practice,  without  touching  their  principles.  What,  for  example, 

in  this  case  of  D ,  has  been  done  to  vary  the  principle  of 

action  ?  What  is  all  this  boring,  and  probing,  and  sounding, 
and  scrutinizing  with  the  microscope,  and  dividing  the  surface 
of  the  building  into  registered  square  inches — what  is  it  all  but 
an  exaggeration  of  the  application  of  the  one  principle  or  set  of 
principles  of  search,  which  are  based  upon  the  one  set  of  notions 
regarding  human  ingenuity,  to  which  the  Prefect,  in  the  long 
routine  of  his  duty,  has  been  accustomed  1  Do  you  not  see  he 
has  taken  it  for  granted  that  all  men  proceed  to  conceal  a  letter, 
— not  exactly  in  a  gimlet-hole  bored  in  a  chair-leg — but,  at 
least,  in  some  out-of-the-way  hole  or  corner  suggested  by  the 
same  tenor  of  thought  which  would  urge  a  man  to  secrete  a 
letter  in  a  gimlet-hole  bored  in  a  chair-leg  ?  And  do  you  not 
see  also,  that  such  recherches  nooks  for  concealment  are  adapted 
only  for  ordinary  occasions,  and  would  be  adopted  only  by  ordi- 
nary intellects  ;  for,  in  all  cases  of  concealment,  a  disposal  of 
the  article  concealed — a  disposal  of  it  in  this  recherche  manner, 
— is,  in  the  very  first  instance,  presumed  and  presumable ;  and 
thus  its  discovery  depends,  not  at  all  upon  the  acumen,  but 
altogether  upon  the  mere  care,  patience,  and  determination  of 
the  seekers ;  and  where  the  case  is  of  importance — or,  what 
amounts  to  the  same  thing  in  the  policial  eyes,  when  the  reward 
is  of  magnitude,  the  qualities  in  question  have  never  been  known 
to  fail.  You  will  now  understand  what  I  meant  in  suggesting 
that,  had  the  purloined  letter  been  hidden  any  where  within  the 
limits  of  the  Prefect's  examination — in  other  words,  had  the 
principle  of  its  concealment  been  comprehended  within  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  Prefect — its  discovery  would  have  been  a  matter 
altogether  beyond  question.  This  functionary,  however,  has 
been  thoroughly  mystified ;  and  the  remote  source  of  his  defeat 
lies  in  the  supposition  that  the  Minister  is  a  fool,  because  he  has 
acquired  renown  as  a  poet.  All  fools  are  poets  ;  this  the  Prefect 


54  THE    GIFT. 

feels ;  and  he  is  merely  guilty  of  a  non  distributio  medii  in 
thence  inferring  that  all  poets  are  fools." 

"  But  is  this  really  the  poet  ?"  I  asked.  "  There  are  two 
brothers,  I  know ;  and  both  have  attained  reputation  in  letters. 
The  Minister  I  believe  has  written  learnedly  on  the  Differential 
Calculus.  He  is  a  mathematician,  and  no  poet." 

"  You  are  mistaken ;  I  know  him  well ;  he  is  both.  As 
poet  and  mathematician,  he  would  reason  well;  as  poet,  pro- 
foundly; as  mere  mathematician,  he  could  not  have  reasoned 
at  all,  and  thus  would  have  been  at  the  mercy  of  the  Prefect." 

"  You  surprise  me,"  I  said,  "  by  these  opinions,  which  have 
been  contradicted  by  the  voice  of  the  world.  You  do  not  mean 
to  set  at  naught  the  well-digested  idea  of  centuries.  The  mathe- 
matical reason  has  been  long  regarded  as  the  reason  par  excel- 
lence." 

"  '  II  y  a  a  parier,'  replied  Dupin,  quoting  from  Chamfort, 

*  que  toute  idee  publique,  toute  convention  recue,   est  une  sot- 
tise,  car  elle  a  convenue  au  plus  grand  nombre.'     The  mathe- 
maticians, I  grant  you,  have  done  their  best  to  promulgate  the 
popular  error  to  which  you  allude,  and  which  is  none  the  less 
an  error  for  its  promulgation  as  truth.     With  an  art  worthy  a 
better  cause,  for  example,  they  have  insinuated  the  term  *  ana- 
lysis' into  application  to  algebra.     The  French  are  the  origina- 
tors  of  this   particular   deception  ;   but   if  a   term   is   of  any 
importance — if  words   derive   any   value   from   applicability — 
then  '  analysis'  conveys  '  algebra'  about  as  much  as,  in  Latin, 

*  ambitus'1  implies  '  ambition,'  '  religic?  4  religion,'  or  '  homines 
honestij  a  set  of  honourable  men." 

"  You  have  a  quarrel  on  hand,  I  see,"  said  I,  "  with  some  of 
the  algebraists  of  Paris ;  but  proceed." 

"  I  dispute  the  availability,  and  thus  the  value,  of  that  reason 
which  is  cultivated  in  any  especial  form  other  than  the  abstractly 
logical.  I  dispute,  in  particular,  the  reason  educed  by  mathe- 
matical study.  The  mathematics  are  the  science  of  form  and 
quantity;  mathematical  reasoning  is  merely  logic  applied  to 


THE    PURLOINED    LETTER.  55 

observation  upon  form  and  quantity.  The  great  error  lies  in 
supposing  that  even  the  truths  of  what  is  called  pure  algebra, 
are  abstract  or  general  truths.  And  this  error  is  so  egregious 
that  I  am  confounded  at  the  universality  with  which  it  has  been 
received.  Mathematical  axioms  are  not  axioms  of  general  truth. 
What  is  true  of  relation — of  form  and  quantity — is  often  grossly 
false  in  regard  to  morals,  for  example.  In  this  latter  science  it 
is  very  usually  untrue  that  the  aggregated  parts  are  equal  to  the 
whole.  In  chemistry  also  the  axiom  fails.  In  the  consideration 
of  motive  it  fails ;  for  two  motives,  each  of  a  given  value,  have 
not,  necessarily,  a  value  when  united,  equal  to  the  sum  of  their 
values  apart.  There  are  numerous  other  mathematical  truths 
which  are  only  truths  within  the  limits  of  relation.  But  the 
mathematician  argues,  from  his  finite  truths,  through  habit,  as 
if  they  were  of  an  absolutely  general  applicability — as  the  world 
indeed  imagines  them  to  be.  Bryant,  in  his  very  learned  '  My- 
thology,' mentions  an  analogous  source  of  error,  when  he  says 
that '  although  the  Pagan  fables  are  not  believed,  yet  we  forget 
ourselves  continually,  and  make  inferences  from  them  as  existing 
realities.'  With  the  algebraist,  however,  who  are  Pagans  them- 
selves, the  '  Pagan  fables'  are  believed,  and  the  inferences  are 
made,  not  so  much  through  lapse  of  memory,  as  through  an 
unaccountable  addling  of  the  brains.  In  short,  I  never  yet 
encountered  the  mere  mathematician  who  could  be  trusted  out  of 
equal  roots,  or  one  who  did  not  clandestinely  hold  it  as  a  point 
of  his  faith  that  x^+px  was  absolutely  and  unconditionally 
equal  to  q.  Say  to  one  of  these  gentlemen,  by  way  of  experi- 
ment, if  you  please,  that  you  believe  occasions  may  occur  where 
z*-\-pz  is  not  altogether  equal  to  q,  and,  having  made  him 
understand  what  you  mean,  get  out  of  his  reach  as  speedily  as 
convenient,  for,  beyond  doubt,  he  will  endeavour  to  knock  you 
down. 

"  I  mean  to  say,"  continued  Dupin,  while  I  merely  laughed 
at  his  last  observations,  "  that  if  the  Minister  had  been  no  more 
than  a  mathematician,  the  Prefect  would  have  been  under  no 
necessity  of  giving  me  this  check.  Had  he  been  no  more  than 


56  THE    GIFT. 

a  poet,  I  think  it  probable  that  he  would  have  foiled  us  all.  I  knew 
him,  however,  as  both  mathematician  and  poet,  and  my  measures 
were  adapted  to  his  capacity,  with  reference  to  the  circumstances 
by  which  he  was  surrounded.  I  knew  him  as  a  courtier,  too, 
and  as  a  bold  intriguant.  Such  a  man,  I  considered,  could  not 
fail  to  be  aware  of  the  ordinary  policial  modes  of  action.  He  could 
not  have  failed  to  anticipate — and  events  have  proved  that  he  did  not 
fail  to  anticipate — the  waylayings  to  which  he  was  subjected.  He 
must  have  foreseen,  I  reflected,  the  secret  investigations  of  his  pre- 
mises. His  frequent  absences  from  home  at  night,  which  were 
hailed  by  the  Prefect  as  certain  aids  to  his  success,  I  regarded  only 
as  ritses,  to  afford  opportunity  for  thorough  search  to  the  police, 
and  thus  the  sooner  to  impress  them  with  the  conviction  to  which 

G ,  in  fact,  did  finally  arrive — the  conviction  that  the  letter 

was  not  upon  the  premises.  I  felt,  also,  that  the  whole  train  of 
thought,  which  I  was  at  some  pains  in  detailing  to  you  just  now, 
concerning  the  invariable  principle  of  policial  action  in  searches 
for  articles  concealed — I  felt  that  this  whole  train  of  thought  would 
necessarily  pass  through  the  mind  of  the  Minister.  It  would 
imperatively  lead  him  to  despise  all  the  ordinary  nooks  of  con- 
cealment. He  could  not,  I  reflected,  be  so  weak  as  not  to  see 
that  the  most  intricate  and  remote  recess  of  his  hotel  would  be 
as  open  as  his  commonest  closets  to  the  eyes,  to  the  probes,  to 
the  gimlets,  and  to  the  microscopes  of  the  Prefect.  I  saw,  in 
fine,  that  he  would  be  driven,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  simpli- 
city, if  not  deliberately  induced  to  it  as  a  matter  of  choice.  You 
will  remember,  perhaps,  how  desperately  the  Prefect  laughed 
when  I  suggested,  upon  our  first  interview,  that  it  was  just  pos- 
sible this  mystery  troubled  him  so  much  on  account  of  its  being 
so  very  self-evident." 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  I  remember  his  merriment  well.  I  really 
thought  he  would  have  fallen  into  convulsions." 

"  The  material  world,"  continued  Dupin,  "  abounds  with  very 
strict  analogies  to  the  immaterial ;  and  thus  some  colour  of 
truth  has  been  given  to  the  rhetorical  dogma,  that  metaphor,  or 
simile,  may  be  made  to  strengthen  an  argument,  as  well  as  to 


THE    PURLOINED  LETTER.  57 

embellish  a  description.  The  principle  of  the  vis  inertia,  for 
example,  with  the  amount  of  momentum  proportionate  with  it 
and  consequent  upon  it,  seems  to  be  identical  in  physics  and 
metaphysics.  It  is  not  more  true  in  the  former,  that  a  large 
body  is  with  more  difficulty  set  in  motion  than  a  smaller  one, 
and  that  its  subsequent  impetus  is  commensurate  with  this  diffi- 
culty, than  it  is,  in  the  latter,  that  intellects  of  the  vaster  capa- 
city, while  more  forcible,  more  constant,  and  more  eventful  in 
their  movements  than  those  of  inferior  grade,  are  yet  the  less 
readily  moved,  and  more  embarrassed  and  full  of  hesitation  in 
the  first  few  steps  of  their  progress.  Again :  have  you  ever 
noticed  which  of  the  street  signs,  over  the  shop-doors,  are  the 
most  attractive  of  attention  ?" 

"  I  have  never  given  the  matter  a  thought,"  I  said. 

"  There  is  a  game  of  puzzles,"  he  resumed,  "  which  is  played 
upon  a  map.  One  party  playing  requires  another  to  find  a 
given  word — the  name  of  town,  river,  state,  or  empire — any 
word,  in  short,  upon  the  motley  and  perplexed  surface  of  the 
chart.  A  novice  in  the  game  generally  seeks  to  embarrass  his 
opponents  by  giving  them  the  most  minutely  lettered  names  ; 
but  the  adept  selects  such  words  as  stretch,  in  large  characters, 
from  one  end  of  the  chart  to  the  other.  These,  like  the  over- 
largely  lettered  signs  and  placards  of  the  street,  escape  observa- 
tion by  dint  of  being  excessively  obvious ;  and  here  the  physical 
oversight  is  precisely  analogous  with  the  moral  inapprehension 
by  which  the  intellect  suffers  to  pass  unnoticed  those  considera- 
tions which  are  too  obtrusively  and  too  palpably  self-evident. 
But  this  is  a  point,  it  appears,  somewhat  above  or  beneath  the 
understanding  of  the  Prefect.  He  never  once  thought  it  pro- 
bable, or  possible,  that  the  Minister  had  deposited  the  letter 
immediately  beneath  the  nose  of  the  whole  world,  by  way  of 
best  preventing  any  portion  of  that  world  from  perceiving  it. 

"  But  the  more  I  reflected  upon  the  daring,  dashing,  and 
discriminating  ingenuity  of  D ;  upon  the  fact  that  the  docu- 
ment must  always  have  been  at  liand,  if  he  intended  to  use  it 
to  good  purpose ;  and  upon  the  decisive  evidence,  obtained  by 

6 


58  THE    GIFT. 

the  Prefect,  that  it  was  not  hidden  within  the  limits  of  that  digni- 
tary's ordinary  search — the  more  satisfied  I  became  that,  to 
conceal  this  letter,  the  Minister  had  resorted  to  the  comprehensive 
and  sagacious  expedient  of  not  attempting  to  conceal  it  at  all. 

"  Full  of  these  ideas,  I  prepared  myself  with  a  pair  of  green 
spectacles,  and  called  one  fine  morning,  quite  by  accident,  at 
the  ministerial  hotel.  I  found  D at  home,  yawning,  loung- 
ing, and  dawdling  as  usual,  and  pretending  to  be  in  the  last 
extremity  of  ennui.  He  is,  perhaps,  the  most  really  energetic 
human  being  now  alive — but  that  is  only  when  nobody  sees  him. 

"  To  be  even  with  him,  I  complained  of  my  weak  eyes,  and 
lamented  the  necessity  of  the  spectacles,  under  cover  of  which  I 
cautiously  and  thoroughly  surveyed  the  whole  apartment,  while 
seemingly  intent  only  upon  the  conversation  of  my  host. 

"  I  paid  especial  attention  to  a  large  writing-table  near  which 
he  sat,  and  upon  which  lay  confusedly,  some  miscellaneous 
letters  and  other  papers,  with  one  or  two  musical  instruments 
and  a  few  books.  Here,  however,  after  a  long  and  very  deli- 
berate scrutiny,  I  saw  nothing  to  excite  particular  suspicion. 

"  At  length  my  eyes,  in  going  the  circuit  of  the  room,  fell 
upon  a  trumpery  fillagree  card-rack  of  pasteboard,  that  hung 
dangling  by  a  dirty  blue  riband,  from  a  little  brass  knob  just 
beneath  the  middle  of  the  mantel-piece.  In  this  rack,  which  had 
three  or  four  compartments,  were  five  or  six  visiting-cards,  and 
a  solitary  letter.  This  last  was  much  soiled  and  crumpled.  It 
was  torn  nearly  in  two,  across  the  middle — as  if  a  design,  in  the 
first  instance,  to  tear  it  entirely  up  as  worthless,  had  been 
altered,  or  stayed,  in  the  second.  It  had  a  large  black  seal, 
bearing  the  D cipher  very  conspicuously,  and  was  ad- 
dressed, in  a  diminutive  female  hand,  to  D ,  the  minister, 

himself.  It  was  thrust  carelessly,  and  even,  as  it  seemed,  con- 
temptuously, into  one  of  the  uppermost  divisions  of  the  rack. 

"  No  sooner  had  I  glanced  at  this  letter,  than  I  concluded  it 
to  be  that  of  which  I  was  in  search.  To  be  sure,  it  was,  to  all 
appearance,  radically  different  from  the  one  of  which  the  Prefect 
had  read  us  so  minute  a  description.  Here  the  seal  was  large 


THE    PURLOINED    LETTER.  59 

and  black,  with  the  D cipher ;  there,  it  was  small  and  red, 

with  the  ducal  arms  of  the  S family.  Here,  the  address,  to 

the  minister,  was  diminutive  and  feminine ;  there,  the  superscrip- 
tion, to  a  certain  royal  personage,  was  markedly  bold  and 
decided  ;  the  size  alone  formed  a  point  of  correspondence.  But, 
then,  the  radicalness  of  these  differences,  which  was  excessive ; 
the  dirt,  the  soiled  and  torn  condition  of  the  paper,  so  inconsis- 
tent with  the  true  methodical  habits  of  D ,  and  so  suggestive 

of  a  design  to  delude  the  beholder  into  an  idea  of  the  worthless- 
ness  of  the  document;  these  things,  together  with  the  hyper- 
obtrusive  situation  of  this  document,  full  in  the  view  of  every 
visiter,  and  thus  exactly  in  accordance  with  the  conclusions  to 
which  I  had  previously  arrived ;  these  things,  I  say,  were 
strongly  corroborative  of  suspicion,  in  one  who  came  with  the 
intention  to  suspect. 

"  I  protracted  my  visit  as  long  as  possible,  and,  while  I  main- 
tained a  most  animated  discussion  with  the  minister,  upon  a  topic 
which  I  knew  well  had  never  failed  to  interest  and  excite  him,  I 
kept  my  attention  really  riveted  upon  the  letter.  In  this  exami- 
nation, I  committed  to  memory  its  external  appearance  and 
arrangement  in  the  rack ;  and  also  fell,  at  length,  upon  a  dis- 
covery which  set  at  rest  whatever  trivial  doubt  I  might  have 
entertained.  In  scrutinizing  the  edges  of  the  paper,  I  observed 
them  to  be  more  chafed  than  seemed  necessary.  They  presented 
the  broken  appearance  which  is  manifested  when  a  stiff  paper, 
having  been  once  folded  and  pressed  with  a  folder,  is  refolded  in 
a  reversed  direction,  in  the  same  creases  or  edges  which  had 
formed  the  original  fold.  This  discovery  was  sufficient.  It  was 
clear  to  me  that  the  letter  had  been  turned,  as  a  glove,  inside 
out,  re-directed,  and  re-sealed.  I  bade  the  minister  good  morn- 
ing, and  took  my  departure  at  once,  leaving  a  gold  snuff-box 
upon  the  table. 

"The  next  morning  I  called  for  the  snuff-box,  when  we 
resumed,  quite  eagerly,  the  conversation  of  the  preceding  day. 
While  thus  engaged,  however,  a  loud  report,  as  if  of  a  pistol, 
was  heard  immediately  beneath  the  windows  of  the  hotel,  and 


60  THE    GIFT. 

was  succeeded  by  a  series  of  fearful  screams,  and  the  shoutings 

of  a  terrified  mob.  D rushed  to  a  casement,  threw  it  open, 

and  looked  out.  In  the  meantime,  I  stepped  to  the  card-rack, 
took  the  letter,  put  it  in  my  pocket,  and  replaced  it  by  a  fac- 
simile^ which  I  had  carefully  prepared  at  my  lodgings — imitating 

the  D cipher,  very  readily,  by  means  of  a  seal  formed  of 

bread. 

"  The  disturbance  in  the  street  had  been  occasioned  by  the 
frantic  behaviour  of  a  man  with  a  musket.  He  had  fired  it 
among  a  crowd  of  women  and  children.  It  proved,  however,  to 
have  been  without  ball,  and  the  fellow  was  suffered  to  go  his 

way  as  a  lunatic  or  a  drunkard.  When  he  had  gone,  D 

came  from  the  window,  whither  I  had  followed  him  immediately 
upon  securing  the  object  in  view.  Soon  afterwards  I  bade  him 
farewell.  The  pretended  lunatic  was  a  man  in  my  own  pay." 

"  But  what  purpose  had  you,"  I  asked,  "  in  replacing  the  letter 
by  a  fac-simile  1  Would  it  not  have  been  better,  at  the  first 
visit,  to  have  seized  it  openly,  and  departed  ?" 

"  D ,"  replied  Dupin,  "  is  a  desperate  man,  and  a  man  of 

nerve.  His  hotel,  too,  is  not  without  attendants  devoted  to  his 
interests.  Had  I  made  the  wild  attempt  you  suggest,  I  should 
never  have  left  the  ministerial  presence  alive.  The  good  people 
of  Paris  would  have  heard  of  me  no  more.  But  I  had  an  object 
apart  from  these  considerations.  You  know  my  political  pre- 
possessions. In  this  matter,  I  act  as  a  partisan  of  the  lady 
concerned.  For  eighteen  months  the  minister  has  had  her  in 
his  power.  She  has  now  him  in  hers — since,  being  unaware 
that  the  letter  is  not  in  his  possession,  he  will  proceed  with  his 
exactions  as  if  it  was.  Thus  will  he  inevitably  commit  himself, 
at  once,  to  his  political  destruction.  His  downfall,  too,  will  not 
be  more  precipitate  than  awkward.  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk 
about  the  facilis  descensus  Averni ;  but  in  all  kinds  of  climbing, 
as  Catalini  said  of  singing,  it  is  far  more  easy  to  get  up  than  to 
come  down.  In  the  present  instance  I  have  no  sympathy — at 
least  no  pity — for  him  who  descends.  He  is  that  monstrum 
horrendum,  an  unprincipled  man  of  genius.  1  confess,  however, 


THE    PURLOINED    LETTER.  61 

that  I  should  like  very  well  to  know  the  precise  character  of  his 
thoughts,  when,  being  defied  by  her  whom  the  Prefect  terms  « a 
certain  personage,'  he  is  reduced  to  opening  the  letter  which  I 
left  for  him  in  the  card-rack." 

"  How  ?  did  you  put  any  thing  particular  in  it  ?" 

"  Why — it  did  not  seem  altogether  right  to  leave  the  interior 

blank — that  would  have  been  insulting.     To  be  sure,  D ,  at 

Vienna  once,  did  me  an  evil  turn,  which  I  told  him,  quite  good- 
humouredly,  that  I  should  remember.  So,  as  I  knew  he  would 
feel  some  curiosity  in  regard  to  the  identity  of  the  person  who 
had  outwitted  him,  I  thought  it  a  pity  not  to  give  him  a  clue. 
He  is  well  acquainted  with  my  MS.,  and  I  just  copied  into  the 
middle  of  the  blank  sheet  the  words — 

"  ' Un  dessein  si  funeste, 

S'il  n'cst  digne  d'Atree,  esl  digne  de  Thyeste.' 

Thev  are  to  be  found  in  Crebillon's  *  Atree.'  " 


6* 


TO  COLUMBUS  DYING. 


FROM    THE   GERMAN    OF    OEHLEN8CHLCEGER. 


SOON  with  thee  will  all  be  over, 
Soon  the  voyage  will  be  begun, 

That  shall  bear  thee  to  discover 
Far  away  a  land  unknown. 

Land,  that  each  alone  must  visit, 
But  no  tidings  bring  to  men, 

For  no  sailor,  once  departed, 
Ever  hath  returned  again. 

No  carved  wood,  no  broken  branches 
Ever  drift  from  that  far  wild, 

He  who  on  that  ocean  launches, 
Meets  no  corse  of  angel-child. 

All  is  mystery  before  thee, 

But  in  peace,  and  love,  and  faith, 

And  with  hope  attended,  saiPst  thou 
Off  upon  the  ship  of  Death. 

Undismayed,  my  noble  sailor, 

Spread  then,  spread  thy  canvass  out, 

Spirit !  on  a  sea  of  ether 

Soon  shalt  thou  serenely  float. 


TO    COLUMBUS    DYING.  63 

Where  the  deeps  no  plummet  soundeth, 

Fear  no  hidden  breakers  there, 
And  the  fanning  wings  of  angels 

Shall  thy  bark  right  onward  bear. 

Quit  now,  full  of  heart  and  comfort, 

These  Azores — they  are  of  earth; 
Where  the  rosy  clouds  are  parting, 

There  the  Blessed  Isles  loom  forth. 

Seest  thou  now  thy  San  Salvador  ? 

Him,  thy  Saviour,  thou  shalt  hail, 
Where  no  storms  of  earth  shall  reach  thee. 

Where  thy  hope  shall  no  more  fail. 


THE  MORAL  OF  GOSLYNE  GREENE, 

WHO  WAS  BORN  TO  A  FORTUNE. 

BY  JOSEPH  C.  JS'EAL, 
AUTHOR  OF  "  CHARCOAL  SKETCHES,"  "  IN  TOWN  AND  ABOUT,"  ETC. 

THAT  man  is  a  moral. 

He  is  historically  complete — a  hero  who  has  achieved  his 
climax  and  has  survived  his  catastrophe — one  of  those  luckless 
wights  who  outlive  themselves,  and  tarry  on  the  stage  when  their 
drama  is  over,  posthumous  to  the  action  of  the  piece.  Nothing 
can  be  more  poetically  ungraceful  than  to  exist  too  long,  and  to 
go  slouching  down  the  world  on  the  wrong  side  of  your  crisis, 
like  the  stupid  stalk  of  an  exploded  rocket. 

To  be  a  moral — 

Morals,  in  their  plurality  of  number,  are  entitled  to  respect  ; 
but  make  it,  gentle  reader,  ambitious  though  you  chance  to  be, 
a  matter  both  of  solicitude  and  solicitation,  that  you  may  never, 
in  the  singular  point  of  view,  obtain  the  sad  pre-eminence  of 
being  elevated  to  the  rank  of  a  moral,  to  be  stuck  with  a  pin 
upon  a  card  in  the  cabinet  of  ethical  entomology,  as  a  theme  for 
lectures.  The  moral  deducible  from  one's  own  experiences  is  in 
some  sort  antagonistical  to  himself.  It  rises  at  the  other  end  of 
the  plank,  and  soars  to  importance  as  a  text,  just  as  he  declines 
from  the  equipoise  of  a  true  balance.  When,  for  instance,  we 
are  in  the  mire,  our  moral  is  at  its  superlative  height  of  interest  ; 
and,  generally  speaking,  the  individual  is  capable  of  affording 
the  most  impressive  moral  when  his  morals  are  in  their  extreme 


THE  MORAL  OF  GOSLYNE  GREENE.          65 

state  of  dilapidation.  It  is  too  much  to  ask,  even  of  a  philan- 
thropist, that  he  should  himself  be  a  moral ;  but,  luckily,  there 
are  volunteers  enough  to  supply  the  demand.  As  we  said  before, 

That  man  is  a  moral. 

You  may  see  it  in  the  sad  dejection  of  his  visage — in  his  pallid 
cheek  and  in  his  vacant  aspect.  There  is  also  that  indescribable 
air  of  shabby  gentility  in  his  well-worn  garments,  which  belongs 
almost  exclusively  to  the  man  who  is  a  moral,  had  we  no  mani- 
festation in  his  habitual  deportment  that  he  has  done  with  ambi- 
tion and  has  parted  with  his  hope.  He  moves,  as  it  were,  in 
solitude,  though  bustling  crowds  may  throng  the  street.  Amid 
the  din  of  business  or  the  hum  of  pleasure,  there  seems  to  be  a 
circlet  of  silence  about  him ;  and  people  unconsciously  feel  it 
as  he  approaches,  that  this  man  is  a  moral.  They  have  at  once 
an  inclination  to  sympathize  with  him,  they  cannot  tell  why,  and 
yet  to  avoid  him,  they  know  not  wherefore.  Faces  lengthen  as 
he  comes,  and  there  is  a  passing  chill  in  the  atmosphere.  The 
very  children  are  disposed  to  circumnavigate  him,  by  a  detour  to 
the  right  or  left,  as  if  they  were  aware  that  a  lesson,  and  a 
lesson  somewhat  of  the  hardest,  is  before  them.  There  is  no 
mistaking  the  fact.  A  broken  spirit  buttons  to  the  chin.  Mis- 
anthropy, even  if  it  is  fortunate  enough  to  possess  the  article, 
displays  no  collar  to  its  shirt ;  for  what  cares  it  for  vanity  ? 
And  the  man  who  has  no  expectation  to  feed  his  energies,  indi- 
cates forlornness  by  a  gloomy  slant  of  the  hat,  that  he  may  see 
and  not  be  seen,  knowing  that  it  is  by  the  eyes  alone  we  learn 
aught  of  each  other,  and  that  if  they  be  shaded  from  the  view, 
we  are  isolated  and  apart.  We  cannot  err.  He  who  loiters  in 
the  highways  when  others  hurry  by — he  who  reposes  in  public 
squares  when  nothing  else  is  there  but  a  truant  dog  or  two  in 
races  through  the  grass,  must  be  a  moral,  a  completed  moral, — 
a  deduction  and  an  inference  from  the  aggregate  of  active  hu- 
manity, to  be  read  and  pondered  over  at  the  close  of  the  fable. 
He  is  something  that  was — something  which  now  only  appears 
to  be. 

But  why  was  he — why  was  Goslyne  Greene — for  it  is  of  him 


66  THE    GIFT. 

we  speak — why  was  this  man  loaded  with  a  moral  ?  Why  is 
it  his  hard  fate  to  be  a  locomotive  homily  and  a  perambulating 
sermon  ?  For  no  other  reason,  than  that  it  was  his  mishap  to 
begin  at  the  wrong  end  of  existence,  and  to  construct  his  story 
downwards. 

Yes,  it  is  indeed  a  terrible  thing — we  dread  to  mention  it — the 
pen  falters  as  we  write  the  fearful  words,  and  we  look  round  with 
apprehension  lest  others  may  be  involved  in  the  same  awful  con- 
catenation of  circumstances ;  but  still,  cheered  by  the  fact  that 
such  shocking  calamities  do  not  often  happen,  and  that,  on  this 
favoured  side  of  the  Atlantic  at  least,  the  course  of  events  con- 
tributes to  preserve  the  human  race  from  being  thus  oppressed, 
we  summon  up  courage  to  announce  the  fact,  that  it  was  the 
unutterable  wo  of  Goslyne  Greene, — poor  unoffending  infant — 
to  be  born  to  a  fortune ! — that  it  was  his  disaster  to  come  into 
the  world  as  heir  to  cash,  to  stocks,  to  bond  and  mortgage,  to 
real  estate — to  money  in  hand,  to  dividends,  to  interests  and  to 
rents.  He  cried — afflicted  child — when  he  was  thus  inauspiciously 
ushered  into  life,  and  for  several  days,  and  nights  too,  if  tradition 
is  to  be  credited,  he  continued  to  upraise  his  tiny  and  inarticulate 
voice,  as  if  in  remonstrance  at  the  wrong  which  had  been  done 
to  him.  Nay,  he  was  long  a  wailing  babe,  pained  in  anticipation 
by  his  melancholy  moral.  "  Good  gracious,"  exclaimed  the 
nurse,  "  what  ails  the  boy  !"  and  the  choicest  drugs  that  chemic 
art  could  offer  went  soothingly  down  his  vocal  throat,  but  without 
effecting  the  pacification  of  Goslyne  Greene.  It  was  not  physical, 
but  metaphysical,  aid  that  he  needed,  and  Mrs.  Jones  was  inca- 
pable of  the  ministration. 

Unhappy  Goslyne  Greene  ! — And  yet  his  mother  received 
visits  of  congratulation,  and  people  shook  his  father  by  the  hand. 
There  were  rejoicings  in  the  mansion.  Matrons  and  maids  strove 
gleefully  to  welcome  the  little  stranger,  and  every  one  who  gazed 
upon  him,  endeavoured  by  the  force  of  imagination,  to  discover 
family  resemblances  in  his  round  undeveloped  features,  or,  at 
least,  beauty  in  his  infantile  ugliness.  Our  Goslyne  was  a 
love,  a  darling — the  image  of  its  "  ma" — a  counterpart  of  "  pa." 


THE    MORAL    OF    GOSLYNE    GREENE.  67 

The  phrenologists  promised  genius,  and  there  was  reason  to 
apprehend,  in  short,  that  Crichton  would  no  longer  have  a  mo- 
nopoly of  being  "  admirable,"  and  that  the  river  would  be  set  on 
fire  at  last,  through  the  gifts  of  Goslyne  Greene.  But  while,  in 
this  respect,  he  only  shared  the  common  lot — for  we  are  all 
prodigies  in  the  cradle — still  Goslyne  had  lace  upon  his  cap 
and  velvet  to  his  couch,  with  splendour  all  about.  Born  to 
a  fortune !  Enviable  creature  ! — Why  did  he  thus  wrinkle  up 
his  pudgy  nose  and  weep  with  direful  squalls  ?  The  more  he 
was  kissed,  the  more  he  was  caressed,  the  more  he  was  admired 
and  felicitated,  the  more  angrily  did  he  sob  and  shriek.  It  may 
be  that  his  unsophisticated  perceptions  saw  little  else  than  bitter 
irony  in  the  flattering  compliments  that  were  bestowed  upon 
him,  and  could  discover  small  reason  for  being  glad  that  another 
sufferer  had  been  added  to  the  roll,  for  the  benefit  mainly  of  the 
tailor,  the  physician,  and  the  undertaker,  which,  it  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed, is  the  philosophy  of  our  indignant  uproar  at  the  com- 
mencement of  this  sublunary  career. 

Besides,  what  had  Goslyne  done  to  be  thus  doomed  to  a  for- 
tune ?  He  appeared  to  have  as  much  intellect  as  other  babes. 
His  voice  was  as  strong — his  back  as  straight — his  legs  and  arms 
as  capable  as  theirs,  and  yet  he  was  to  be  denied  the  natural  and 
lawful  use  of  his  gifts  and  faculties.  No  wonder  his  cries  were 
unremitting,  and  that  his  wrath  rose  as  the  state  of  the  case  was 
made  obvious  by  the  thronging  of  his  courtiers. 

In  truth,  Goslyne  Greene  was  himself  not  at  all  to  blame  in 
the  premises.  His  father  had  toiled  with  but  a  single  hope  that 
his  son  might  be  born  to  a  fortune,  and  that  hope  had  been 
accomplished,  as  hopes  sometimes  are,  to  prove  perhaps  that  the 
success  of  our  wishes  is  not  always  the  most  desirable  thing  that 
could  happen  to  us.  "  Goslyne  will  be  rich,  any  how,"  said  the 
old  gentleman  in  the  midst  of  his  labours,  as  if  he  found  conso- 
lation in  the  fact,  and  as  if  he  had  thus  secured  his  son's  welfare 
and  happiness  beyond  the  reach  of  doubt. 

The  majority  of  the  world  will  probably  agree  in  opinion  with 
the  elder  Mr.  Greene ;  for  it  is  the  popular  sentiment  that  the 


68  THE    GIFT. 

fact  of  being  rich,  and  not  the  process  of  getting  rich,  is  the 
happiness.  But,  in  this  case,  and  probably  in  many  others,  the 
reverse  was  the  truth.  The  father  had  a  pleasant  life  enough 
under  the  influence  of  an  absorbing  object,  while  the  son  is  a 
man  with  a  moral ;  and  it  may  be  that  people  are  often  overruled 
in  this  matter,  for  the  advantage  of  posterity.  Who  knows  but 
that  the  follies  and  extravagances  of  those  who  have  either  the 
command  of  wealth  or  the  prospect  of  it — their  speculations  and 
their  splendours — their  "operations"  and  their  magnificence — 
are,  after  all,  but  an  element  in  the  plan  of  wisdom,  intended  at 
intervals  to  afford  a  new  impulse  by  a  reduction  to  the  primitive, 
healthful,  and  energetic  state  of  having  more  wants  and  wishes 
than  we  have  the  means  to  supply?  A  dabble  in  the  stocks 
does  not  always  turn  out  profitably  ;  cotton  sometimes  is  heavy 
on  our  hands,  and  real  estate  will  sulkily  retrograde,  when,  by 
the  calculation,  it  ought  to  have  advanced.  But  are  we  sure 
that  such  events  are  a  visitation  of  unmitigated  disaster  ?  May 
not  that  dusky  spectre,  a  dun,  "  hated  of  gods  and  men,"  whose 
portentous  tap  causes  the  heart  to  quake  and  the  pocket  to 
quiver,  have  a  mission  of  far  greater  importance  than  to  make 
the  mere  demand  for  money  ?  Superficially  considered,  it  was 
a  sad  business  when  morus  muUicaulis  toppled  from  its  airy 
height,  and  brought  so  many  to  the  earth  along  with  it.  To 
find  one's  fifty  dollar  twigs  suddenly  reduced  to  the  level  of 
sixpenny  switches,  is  by  no  means  a  pleasant  waking  from 
golden  dreams,  and  to  decline  from  the  damask  luxury  of  a 
chariot  to  plain  pedestrianism,  is  a  sinking  in  poetry  which 
affects  the  mind  by  the  force  of  contrast.  People,  for  the  most 
part,  are  not  pleased  with  changes  of  so  violent  a  character,  and 
have  a  decided  aversion  to  the  downward  movement,  whatever 
they  may  have  done  to  render  it  indispensable.  And  yet  re- 
verses are  often  medicinal.  There  is  much  of  virtue  in  an  alter- 
ative. The  necessity  for  walking,  which  is  thus  imposed,  may 
be  the  only  prescription  to  bring  the  mind  and  body  back  to  their 
native  vigour.  Both  are  liable  to  be  invaded  by  an  apoplectic 
pursiness,  which  demands  severe  training  to  preserve  us  from 


THE    MORAL    OF    GOSLYNE    GREENE.  69 

lethargy,  and  to  afford  room  for  the  salutary  play  of  our  facul- 
ties. The  spirit,  like  the  corporal  fabric  in  which  it  is  enclosed, 
is  exposed  to  the  danger  of  growing  rotund,  asthmatic,  indolent, 
and  unwieldy ;  and  perchance,  even  as  regards  those  for  whom 
we  labour,  if  our  vision  were  keen  enough  to  embrace  the  whole 
scheme  of  this  earthly  struggle,  we  might  be  induced  to  look 
upon  a  financial  catastrophe  now  and  then,  as  a  providential 
interference,  and  to  rejoice  over  the  enlivening  incident  of  being 
ruined  occasionally,  as  if  it  were  a  capital  prize  in  the  lottery  of 
adventure — like  a  shower-bath — a  sharp  shock  to  the  nerves, 
but,  in  its  reaction,  exceedingly  tonic  and  refreshing. 

The  elder  Mr.  Greene,  however,  was  rather  of  a  practical  cast 
than  of  a  meditative  nature,  content  in  the  outward  seeming  of 
things  without  cracking  for  the  kernel ;  and  it  is  not  at  all  likely 
that  he  would  have  credited  it,  even  if  you  had  told  him  so,  that 
the  primitive  Goslyne  is  the  safest  bird,  and  that,  when  it  is 
compelled  to  nibble  over  a  somewhat  arid  common  for  a  living, 
the  position  is  better  than  if  the  nutriment  were  gathered  to  its 
neb.  Observe,  now,  when  a  man's  pockets  are  stimulantly 
vacant — when  a  new  coat  is  rather  an  abstract  idea  than  a 
palpable  presence — when  the  pleasure  of  having  a  good  dinner 
to-day  is  enhanced  by  a  small  and  appetizing  degree  of  doubt  as 
to  the  nature  of  the  viands  which  will  grace  his  board  to-morrow, 
what  a  quick,  lively,  interesting  little  creature  he  becomes.  How 
his  manners  are  improved  ;  how  his  temper  is  ameliorated ;  how 
all  sorts  of  morbidities  and  misanthropies  are  shaken  to  the 
winds,  as  too  expensive  for  indulgence,  and  how  evil  habit  is 
dispensed  with  until  the  purse  may  admit  of  such  gentlemanlike 
recreations ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  who  arises  willingly  from 
his  couch,  or  has  a  spontaneous  disposition  to  go  to  bed  at 
reasonable  hours  ?  Why,  what  a  languid  time  one  would  have 
of  it,  if  it  were  only  requisite  to  form  a  wish  to  insure  its  grati- 
fication. Even  our  planetary  duty  of  revolving  upon  an  axis, 
and  of  strolling  round  the  sun,  for  the  sake  of  varieties  of  light, 
and  for  a  patronising  encouragement  of  the  little  seasons, 
might  come  to  be  neglected  from  a  want  of  inducement  to  take 

7 


70  THE    GIFT. 

the  trouble  of  rolling;  and  we  should  lose  caste  in  the  solar 
system  by  being  too  indolent  to  perform  our  gyrations,  or  to 
extend  the  shadow  of  eclipse. 

The  elder  Mr.  Greene  would  have  stared  at  an  attempt  to 
demonstrate,  that  perhaps  one's  real  felicity  is  to  be  estimated 
rather  by  what  one  wants  than  by  what  one  has,  and,  though 
realizing  the  truth  in  his  own  person,  that  the  pursuit  is  often 
more  of  a  pleasure  than  the  possession,  he  would  have  thought 
it  strange  enough  if  he  had  been  told  that  it  is  frequently  a  mis- 
fortune to  be  free  from  care. 

But  Goslyne  Greene  verified  a  fact,  the  knowledge  of  which 
had  been  denied  to  his  paternal  predecessor.  Though  sur- 
rounded by  mere  conventional  thinkers — by  those  who  think 
they  think,  and  labour  under  the  delusion  of  supposing  they 
have  opinions  of  their  own,  when  they  only  reflect  the  image 
presented  to  them — and  who,  by  dint  of  reiteration,  had  worn 
out  Goslyne's  original  and  instinctive  aversions  to  his  peculiar 
position  in  the  world,  manifested  by  juvenile  whimpers,  which 
had  more  of  wisdom  in  them  than  is  often  to  be  found  in  the 
gravest  nod  of  a  snow-crowned  head — still  Goslyne  returned  at 
last,  but  rather  circuitously,  it  must  be  confessed,  to  the  primary 
sentiment,  and  perfected  the  moral.  In  the  long  interval,  how- 
ever, he  was  "  sophisticate,"  and,  like  the  mass  of  mankind, 
took  things  for  true  because  every  body  says  so,  when  perhaps 
this  species  of  universal  concession  is  rather  a  suspicious  cir- 
cumstance, and  should  awaken  scrutiny. 

"Born  to  a  fortune"  came,  therefore,  pleasantly  enough  to 
the  ears  of  Goslyne  Greene:  He  soon  learned  to  consider  him- 
self as  an  exempt  from  the  discipline  of  the  drill  sergeant.  The 
filings  and  facings  which  necessity  imposes,  were  nothing  to 
him.  There  was  no  reason  why  his  step  should  be  regulated, 
or  why  he  should  be  obliged  to  march  to  measure.  Goslyne 
had  a  gun  before  he  had  any  conception  of  the  purposes  of  that 
complicated  contrivance  ;  Goslyne  had  a  pony,  with  a  "  coloured 
gentleman"  appurtenant,  to  hold  him  on  the  saddle.  Goslyne 
had  a  watch  before  he  knew  there  was  such  a  thing  as  time,  and 


THE  MORAL  OF  GOSLYNE  GREENE.         71 

before  he  had  the  slightest  idea  of  the  trouble  he  would  hereafter 
have  to  kill  the  horological  enemy,  which  was  destined  to  hang 
so  heavy  on  his  hands.  Other  children  must  dream  of  drums 
and  sigh  for  drums  till  Christmas;  but  drums  were  attainable 
by  Goslyne  every  day  in  the  year ;  and  drums,  thus  reduced  to 
their  sheepskin  realities — the  drum  in  fact,  and  not  the  drum  of 
imagination — become  a  weariness.  It  is  not  our  business  to 
invalidate  proverbs,  and  the  birds  may  have  it  their  own  way ; 
but  an  anticipated  drum  is  in  every  respect  more  fascinating 
than  any  quantity  of  drums  in  hand,  and  the  philosophy  of  this 
has  an  extended  application.  Goslyne,  however,  had  no  anti- 
cipations. Almost  from  the  very  outset,  he  was  compelled  to 
puzzle  himself  to  imagine  new  pleasures  and  to  harass  his  mind 
to  conceive  a  want.  Now  there  are  few  distresses  more  essen- 
tially distressing  than  to  want  a  want.  Other  difficulties  may 
be  surmounted ;  but  when  we  experience  a  difficulty  because  we 
have  not  got  a  difficulty,  what  is  to  be  done?  Goslyne  had 
many  fatiguing  hunts  through  the  region  of  his  fancy,  in  the 
hope  that  under  some  unsuspected,  untried  bush,  he  might  be 
lucky  enough  to  beat  up  an  unsatisfied  desire.  How  often  did 
he  wish  that  there  was  something  which  he  had  not,  that  he 
might  enjoy  the  sport  of  wishing  that  he  could  have  it — a 
common  amusement  enough,  but  one  with  which  Goslyne  was 
not  at  all  familiar,  and  it  was  this  very  deficiency  that  goaded 
him  on  to  his  moral. 

From  the  force  of  circumstances,  Goslyne  unavoidably  became 
an  indolent  boy.  People  did  every  thing  for  him,  when  it  is 
childhood's  happy  impulse  to  do  all  things,  however  imperfectly, 
for  itself,  and  when  it  joyfully  seeks  the  wisdom  of  experience, 
by  an  endless  variety  of  experiments,  triumphing  through  tears, 
tumbles,  breakages,  and  damage  of  all  sorts  and  sizes.  But 
Goslyne  was  supervised  and  carefully  tended,  and,  being  born 
to  a  fortune,  the  mountain  came  to  the  little  Mahomet,  instead  of 
Mahomet  going  to  the  mountain.  He  rarely,  indeed,  had  the 
opportunity  of  improving  himself  by  a  fall  down  stairs  on  his 
own  special  account,  and  probably  never  gathered  knowledge  by 


72  THE    GIFT. 

an  uninterrupted  dabble  in  a  tub  of  water.  If  he  would  climb 
the  fence,  John  lifted  him  to  the  top,  and  if  he  wanted  to  make  a 
horse  of  the  poker,  an  expensive  toy  was  substituted,  to  the  death 
of  all  ingenuity  and  imagination.  Goslyne  was  tamed  and  tran- 
quillized at  last,  into  a  nice  boy,  and  his  mind,  like  his  body, 
lost  relish  for  adventure.  He  looked  to  others  for  his  entertain- 
ment, and  required  grimaces  to  be  made  at  him  to  create  his 
laughter.  John  beat  the  hoop,  while  Goslyne  looked  on,  and 
Tom  turned  heels  over  head,  that  Goslyne  might  enjoy  the  sport 
without  risking  a  bruise.  It  was  a  business  to  amuse  the  child, 
when  that  is  a  business  belonging  chiefly  to  the  child  itself. 

Goslyne  had  not  even  elasticity  enough  left  for  mischief,  it 
was  so  tiresome  when  the  edge  of  its  novelty  had  been  somewhat 
blunted  by  repetition.  What  fun  is  there  in  the  demolition  of 
windows,  when  one  would  just  as  soon  pay  for  the  broken  glass 
as  not  ?  Who  would  fatigue  himself  to  run  down  all  manner  of 
streets,  when  half  a  dollar  is  sure  to  stop  the  pursuit  ?  Why 
poach  for  fruit  upon  forbidden  ground,  when  cash  can  procure 
much  better  fruit,  with  John  to  go  for  it,  and  with  no  agitation  of 
trouble  and  excitement?  Goslyne  had  not  discovered  that  this 
"  trouble"  constitutes  the  poetry  of  almost  every  thing  within  the 
range  of  human  enjoyment.  We  are  born  to  trouble,  and  it  is 
lucky  that  it  is  so,  or  how  should  we  fill  up  our  time  ?  It  might 
not,  perhaps,  be  difficult  to  demonstrate  that  the  abrogation  of 
domestic  and  scholastic  "  correction,"  which  is  yielding  to  the 
progress  of  innovating  philanthropy,  has  made  the  present  gene- 
ration less  jocund  than  its  predecessors.  For  who  can  deny 
that  it  was  an  exquisite  pleasure  to  "  'scape  whipping,"  when 
that  description  of  appeal  to  the  feelings  was  in  fashion  ?  But 
the  enlivening  sensations  thus  derivable,  were  not  accorded 
to  the  wealthy  Goslyne  Greene,  as  being  an  enjoyment  suitable 
only  for  the  plebeian  order.  No  wonder  he  yawned — nobody 
ever  ventured  to  put  him  in  a  rage  by  thwartings  and  contradic- 
tion. How  could  he  do  otherwise  than  stagnate  ? 

In  the  matter  of  acquirement  at  school  and  at  college,  the 
achievements  of  Mr.  Greene  were  just  about  what  would  be  anti- 


THE    MORAL    OF    GOSLYNE    GREENE.  73 

cipated  from  his  earlier  training,  and  he  arrived  at  the  conclu- 
sion to  have  it  so,  by  two  converging  processes  of  thought,  which 
were  brief  and  did  not  impose  a  heavy  tax  upon  the  reasoning 
powers. 

"  Learning  things  is  a  trouble,"  said  Goslyne,  "  and  I  hate 
trouble.  What's  the  use  of  being  rich,  if  we  are  to  have  trouble  1" 

This  was  the  first  stretch  of  his  intellect,  and  he  reposed  upon 
its  laurels  for  a  considerable  series  of  years,  when,  his  faculties 
being  fully  matured,  he  reflected  as  follows : 

"  What  do  people  take  trouble  for — what  do  they  learn  things 
for  ?  Why,  to  get  a  living.  But  I  have  got  a  living  already, 
and  more  than  a  living.  Then,  what's  the  use  ?" 

And  Goslyne  ceased  to  think  further  on  the  subject,  lest  he 
should  injure  the  delicate  organization  of  his  brain  by  the  enter- 
tainment of  abstruse  propositions.  He,  therefore,  yawned  and 
sauntered  through  academic  groves  until  he  reached  the  estate  of 
manhood,  together  with  the  estate  which  his  father  had  accumu- 
lated for  him. 

Now  came  the  most  arduous  part  of  the  effort  to  live  plea- 
surably  without  trouble — to  gather  roses  without  a  thorn.  Never 
was  humanity  more  perplexed.  The  tiresome  fiend  was  close 
at  Goslyne's  heels  wherever  he  might  be,  whether  vegetating  at 
home  or  hurrying  in  travel.  He  tried  change  of  place.  He 
tried  horses  and  dogs.  Gay  companions  wearied  him.  Amuse- 
ments became  insipid.  There  appeared  to  be  no  end  to  the  day, 
and  the  night  was  equally  as  "  tardy  gaited."  The  delights  of 
the  table  seemed  to  promise  well,  and  he  endeavoured  to  fill  up 
intervals  by  Apician  indulgences ;  but  he  was  too  inactive  in 
body  to  carry  on  gormandizing  to  advantage  for  any  length  of 
time;  and  he  found  that  to  vibrate  between  the  cook  and  the 
physician,  with  a  preponderating  tendency  towards  the  man  of 
medicine,  was  a  species  of  trouble  for  which,  on  the  whole,  he 
had  very  little  fancy.  Enlistments  under  the  banner  of  Bacchus 
proved  equally  unproductive,  and  in  games  of  hazard,  he  suf- 
fered a  certain  degree  of  annoyance  when  he  lost  his  money, 

7* 


74  THE    GIFT. 

with  no  compensating  satisfaction  when  he  won  the  money  of 
other  people,  as  he  had  always  cash  enough,  and  had  undergone 
no  such  experience  in  a  deficiency  thereof  to  give  zest  to  pecu- 
niary acquisitions. 

He  laboured  to  persuade  himself  once  upon  a  time  that  he  had 
fallen  in  love,  undertaking  to  be  sentimental  in  "  yellow  kids" 
and  paying  particular  attention  to  costume.  The  lady's  brothers 
borrowed  his  money,  drank  his  wine,  smoked  his  segars,  rode 
his  horses,  broke  his  carriages,  and  treated  him  in  every  way  as 
"  one  of  the  family  ;"  while  the  lady  herself  dragged  him  from 
company  to  company,  from  concert  to  theatres,  caused  him  to 
come  for  her  and  to  go  for  her,  and  danced  him  through  a  whole 
winter ;  so  that  when  they  were  just  about  to  fix  the  "  happy 
day,"  the  timely  thought  struck  him,  in  the  midst  of  a  yawn  of 
unusual  width  and  weariness,  that  he  did  not  like  the  affair 
altogether,  and  that  he  would  take  no  more  "  trouble"  in  relation 
to  it.  There  was  much  talk  about  horsewhips,  about  breaches 
of  promise,  express  and  implied,  about  the  pulling  of  noses, 
horizontal  and  vertical,  coupled  with  hints  concerning  hair  trig- 
gers and  percussion  caps. 

"  As  for  assaults  and  battery,  suits  at  law,  and  permitting 
fellows  to  fire  at  you  as  if  you  were  the  target  in  a  shooting 
gallery,  it's  decidedly  too  much  trouble,"  yawned  Goslyne 
Greene.  "  Tell  'em  to  send  in  a  bill  of  how  much  it  comes  to 
for  letting  me  off,  and  I'll  pay.  It's  cheaper  than  being  shot, 
and  not  half  so  much  trouble  as  matrimony  seems  to  be." 

But  the  star  of  Goslyne  Greene  had  reached  its  culminating 
point,  and  began  to  wane.  His  fortunes  had  suffered  much  from 
his  mode  of  living,  and  more  from  an  unwillingness  to  encounter 
the  "  trouble"  to  look  after  his  affairs.  Mr.  Thimblerig,  who 
had  kindly  undertaken  to  manage  all  investments  for  him,  and  to 
increase  his  cash  by  profitable  speculation,  thought  it  proper  one 
fine  morning  to  depart  for  Texas,  leaving  no  particular  explana- 
tory remarks  behind  him,  and,  indeed,  leaving  the  remarks  to 
be  made  by  other  people,  though  he  left  nothing  else  that  was 


THE    MORAL    OF    GOSLYlfE    GREENE.  75 

portable  or  convertible,  either  of  his  own  or  belonging  to  the 
estate  of  Goslyne  Greene.  Goslyne  had  a  suspicion  that  he 
ought  to  feel  as  a  goose  is  reputed  to  feel. 

"  I  always  had  a  suspicion  that  Thimblerig  was  a  little  of  a 
rascal,"  thought  he ;  "  but  then  the  fellow  was  so  handy  and 
saved  such  a  deal  of  trouble.-" 

There  was  something  left,  to  be  sure.  Thimblerig  had  not 
completely  swept  the  board  ;  but,  in  such  cases,  it  often  happens 
that  it  never  rains  without  pouring.  A  commercial  crisis  swept 
over  the  land.  Banks  exploded  ;  speculations  vanished  into  thin 
air ;  money  loaned  was  not  worth  seeking  after.  The  work 
begun  by  his  faithless  agent  was  now  perfected,  and  Goslyne 
Greene  was  reduced,  like  mighty  Caesar,  to  the  petty  measure  of 
his  physical  dimensions,  without  circumstance  or  accompaniment, 
— a  simple  Goslyne,  independent  of  feathers. 

"  I'm  afraid  there's  going  to  be  trouble,"  said  he,  as  he  looked 
at  the  collapsed  condition  of  his  purse.  "  But  never  mind.  I 
can  borrow." 

The  theory  of  borrowing,  as  Goslyne  had  learned  it,  by  oc- 
cupying the  place  of  a  lender,  is  essentially  different  from  the 
practice  of  borrowing  when  one  tries  it  on  his  own  account. 
The  world  has  various  aspects,  according  to  the  position  from 
which  it  is  viewed,  and  when  an  individual  "  born  to  a  fortune" 
gets  into  the  reverse  attitude,  and  seeks  to  do  as  he  has  been  done 
by,  the  difference  is  striking.  Goslyne  was  surprised  to  find, 
when  he  endeavoured  to  live  upon  other  people  as  other  people 
had  lived  on  him,  that  it  was  rather  a  severe  and  an  unpleasant 
method  of  operation. 

"  Well,  if  I'd  had  any  idea  of  this  before,"  said  he,  when 
disappointed  in  an  effort  to  raise  five  dollars  in  the  way  of 
a  friendly  loan,  "  it  would  have  saved  a  deal  of  trouble,  and  a 
considerable  quantity  of  money." 

But  it  was  rather  too  late  in  the  day  with  the  unfortunate 
Goslyne  Greene  to  unlearn  every  thing  and  to  begin  his  life 
anew.  He  had  no  qualifications  for  the  task  either,  even  if  the 
inclination  had  not  been  lacking,  and  he  discovered  painfully 


76  THE    GIFT. 

enough  that  being  "  born  to  a  fortune,"  where  it  is  much  easier 
to  make  money,  difficult  as  that  process  may  be,  than  to  keep 
it  when  it  is  made,  is  not  always  the  greatest  kindness  that 
our  guardian  angel  can  bestow.  Riches  with  us  is  a  bird  of  an 
incredible  power  of  wing,  and  has  qualities  of  escape  and  evasion 
which  skill  itself  is  often  unavailing  to  combat.  The  bird  was 
gone  from  Goslyne,  but  having  had  no  training  as  a  fowler, 
there  was  no  help,  and  he  was  obliged  to  trust  his  future  life  to 
chance. 

He  ekes  out  a  precarious  existence  on  the  reluctant  kindness 
of  former  friends,  and  by  appeals  to  the  feelings  of  his  kinsfolk, 
who,  however  near  in  former  times,  are  now  disposed  to  be 
"  distant  relations"  in  regard  to  him.  He  is,  nevertheless,  as 
averse  to  trouble  as  ever  when  there  is  a  possibility  of  avoiding 
it,  and  rarely  removes  from  hotel  or  boarding  house  until  the 
politeness  of  the  landlord  induces  him  to  say,  that  he  will  forgive 
arrearage  for  the  sake  of  hastening  Mr.  Goslyne  Greene's  de- 
parture from  the  premises. 

"  And  that  is  what  I  call  behaving  like  a  gentleman,"  says 
Mr.  Greene ;  "  it  saves  a  deal  of  trouble  in  the  adjustment  of 
accounts,  and  as  I  don't  understand  figures,  people  are  so  apt  to 
impose  upon  me." 

Latterly,  however,  he  begins  to  think  that  this  mode  of  settle- 
ment is  too  much  to  the  advantage  of  the  opposite  party,  and 
that  he,  being  at  the  trouble  of  looking  out  for  a  new  domicile, 
should  have  something  to  boot,  in  the  shape  of  a  small  subsidy 
or  an  order  upon  a  ready-made  clothing  establishment,  just  for 
the  sake  of  symmetry  and  to  make  the  matter  perfectly  square ; 
and  he  proposes  to  carry  out  the  idea  when  the  next  occasion 
offers  itself.  Whether  his  conduct  in  thus  obtaining  credit  is 
altogether  creditable,  is  left  to  the  reader  to  decide.  It  is  enough 
for  us  to  have  presented  "  The  moral  of  Goslyne  Greene,  who 
was  born  to  a  fortune,"  that  they  who  are  not  thus  distinguished, 
may  rejoice  over  their  peculiar  happiness  in  being  with  the  ma- 
jority on  this  question,  and  esteem  themselves  lucky  in  beginning 
life  at  its  smaller  and  lower  end. 


THE  POET'S  APOLOGY. 


BY  R.  W.  EMERSON. 

THINK  me  not  unkind  and  rude, 

That  I  walk  alone  in  grove  and  glen  ; 

I  go  to  the  god  of  the  wood 
To  fetch  his  word  to  men. 

Tax  not  my  sloth  that  I 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook ; 

Each  cloud  that  floated  hi  the  sky- 
Writes  a  letter  in  my  book. 

Chide  me  not,  laborious  band, 
For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought ; 

Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 

There  was  never  mystery 
But  'tis  figured  in  the  flowers, 

Was  never  secret  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers. 

One  harvest  from  thy  field 

Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong 
A  second  crop  thine  acres  yield, 

Which  I  gather  in  a  song. 


THE  STUYVESANT  PEAR-TREE. 


BY  MRS.  ELLET. 


SHADE  of  Peter  Stuyvesant, — chivalrous  Peter  the  Headstrong — 
appear ! 

And  lo!  summoned  by  Fancy's  potent  wand,  the  shadowy 
semblance  rises,  wearing  his  own  costume  in  bright  colours  from 
the  immortal  pencil  of  Genius. 

I  behold  a  martial  figure  halting  on  wooden  leg  inlaid  with 
silver,  his  right  hand  grasping  a  gold-headed  cane,  his  left 
resting  on  the  pommel  of  his  sword ;  his  face  rendered  formi- 
dable by  a  pair  of  black  mustachios,  overshadowed  by  a  little 
fierce  cocked  hat ;  his  rattail  queue  descending  to  his  waist  with 
an  air  of  majesty ;  his  regimental  coat  of  German  blue,  with 
voluminous  skirts,  displaying  its  files  of  brass  buttons  in  una- 
bated brilliancy ;  his  brimstone-coloured  trunk  breeches  shining 
in  their  original  splendour.  The  form  hath  a  port  of  command, 
indicated  by  the  broad  shoulders  and  sturdy  athletic  make,  as  of 
one  conscious  that  his  single  head  sufficed  to  govern  a  nation, 
his  single  arm  to  fight  his  way  through  all  difficulties  and  dan- 
gers. It  is  the  port  of  one  born  to  rule,  and  possessing  decision 
and  energy  worthy  of  his  eminent  state,  with  a  perseverance  that 
in  all  cases  made  up  for  the  want  of  correctness  of  judgment. 

This  countenance  of  iron  aspect,  whose  hard-favoured  frown 
struck  dismay  to  the  appalled  hearts  of  his  foes, — this  figure  of 
martial  excellency — are  to  us  as  familiar,  thanks  to  the  great 
historian  of  New  York,  as  the  hero's  redoubtable  deeds.  Long 


THE    STUYVESANT    PEAR-TREE.  79 

shall  the  sturdy  Piet,  as  his  honest  old  Dutch  burghers  affection- 
ately called  him,  live  in  the  recollection  of  the  islanders  whose 
ancestors  he  ruled.  Only  those  for  whom  remoteness  of  time  or 
distance  has  dimmed  the  picture,  or  those  who  have  no  inherit- 
ance in  the  land  that  owned  his  sway,  or  those  unread  in  the 
most  glowing  page  of  history,  have  to  learn  aught  concerning 
this  last  and  most  renowned  of  our  ancient  Dutch  governors. 
Of  him  it  may  truly  be  said,  observes  his  eminent  biographer, 
that  he  was  never  equalled  by  any  successor.  Originally  sent 
as  the  successor  to  Kieft,  by  the  Dutch  West  India  Company  as 
Director  General  in  1647,  he  laid  claim  to  all  the  lands,  rivers, 
and  streams,  from  Cape  Henlopen  to  Cape  Cod. 

It  may  be  asked — and  posterity  will  surely  ask — where  are 
the  monuments  erected  by  a  grateful  people  to  their  far-famed 
governor?  Is  he  immortalized  only  in  the  bright  page  of 
Genius?  Where  are  the  skyward-pointing  columns,  speaking 
to  the  understanding  of  the  illiterate — discoursing  with  eloquent 
tongue  to  the  stranger  from  a  foreign  shore?  Where  is  the 
stately  pile,  to  which  the  proud  citizen  may  point  and  say — "  It 
is  consecrate  to  the  memory  of  the  glorious  old  Dutch  governor 
of  the  New  Netherlands  ?"  Where  are  the  funeral  honours,  the 
pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance,  attending  a  nation's  periodical 
recollection  of  one  of  her  enshrined  heroes  ?  Where  the  celebra- 
tions that  perpetuate  from  year  to  year,  that  renew  time  after 
time  in  the  hearts  of  his  people's  children — the  fame  of  Peter 
Stuy  vesant  ? 

Yes,  he  has  a  monument — a  noble  one ;  and  his  great  deeds 
are  annually  commemorated.  His  own  works  praise  him  in 
the  gates.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  city  he  loved,  stands  a 
solitary  and  venerable  pear-tree.  This  tree  was  originally 
brought  from  Holland;  and  the  best  chroniclers  calculate  its 
age,  at  the  present  date,  to  be  full  two  hundred  years.  It  was 
planted  where  it  now  stands  by  the  Dutch  governor,  Stuyvesant. 

Some  slight  vestiges  of  his  once  extensive  farm  are  still  to  be 
traced.  It  was  situated  about  two  miles  from  the  most  advanced 
part  of  the  city,  which  was  at  that**  time  WALL  STREET.  Here 


80  THE    GIFT. 

he  laid  out  and  arranged,  with  something  of  Dutch  regularity, 
his  rich  and  extensive  gardens,  ornamented  with  trees  brought 
from  various  parts  of  the  world.  In  these  favourite  grounds  he 
loved  to  pass  his  hours  of  leisure ;  perhaps  under  the  shade  of 
those  fruit-trees  he  matured  his  warlike  or  statesmanlike  projects, 
or  devised  the  proclamations  which  were  such  a  terror  to  his 
enemies.  He  was  sometimes  disturbed,  it  is  true,  by  domestic 
invasions  and  inroads.  The  boys  of  the  neighbourhood  would 
steal  the  unripe  fruit  from  the  tender  boughs  of  the  youthful  scions 
of  his  watchful  care.  Year  after  year  the  cherry  and  apple-trees 
of  the  redoubted  governor,  as  they  grew  to  maturity,  were 
subjected  to  this  rude  havoc ;  till  in  process  of  time,  the  more 
cruel  hand  of  "  improvement"  levelled  them  all.  It  has  long 
since  swept  away  every  one  of  those  graceful  and  stately  inhabi- 
tants of  the  soil.  The  same  fate  has  overtaken  his  splendid 
collection  of  pear-trees.  But  while  so  many  have  perished,  one 
has  survived  ;  ONE — the  lone  representative  of  former  luxury 
and  magnificence ;  the  solitary  witness  of  changing  fortune ;  the 
sole  and  single  monument  of  its  once  wealthy  proprietor. 

This  remarkable  tree,  connected  with  so  many  venerable,  and, 
to  some,  sacred  recollections,  stands  on  the  Third  Avenue,  at 
the  corner  of  Thirteenth  Street.  It  has  been  long  robbed  of  its 
garden  protection,  and  the  surroundings  of  companionship.  It 
stands  alone  on  the  public  highway,  exposed,  in  its  helpless  old 
age,  to  all  the  dangers  that  can  befall  it  in  the  midst  of  a  dense 
metropolis.  Hundreds  pass  it  hourly  without  notice;  or  but 
rarely  is  it  pointed  out  to  the  agricultural  student,  or  the  curious 
antiquarian.  Its  time-honoured  associations,  its  past  grandeur, 
are  unheeded  by  the  busy  throng. 

But  not  altogether  neglected  is  the  solitary  tree,  though  a  stone 
pavement  shuts  out  the  sun  from  its  roots,  and  though  its  topmost 
boughs  look  abroad  on  ranges  of  roofs  and  chimneys,  and  domes 
and  spires,  instead  of  the  leafy  honours  of  its  thousand  lordly 
compeers.  A  generous  and  chivalric  lover  of  the  venerable  past* 

*  Dr.  Francis  of  New  York. 


THE    STUYVESANT    PEAR-TREE.  81 

has  protected  its  trunk  by  a  fence  several  feet  high,  thus  securing 
its  bark  against  destructive  boys,  and  those  licensed  vagabonds 
of  old  Gotham — pigs.  The  pear-tree  has  found  an  artist  compe- 
tent to  represent  it  in  one  of  the  first  geniuses  of  the  country. 
Its  fruit — which,  year  after  year,  with  marvellous  fidelity,  it 
yields  in  abundance,  and  has  never  failed  to  yield  from  its  first 
bearing  up  to  the  present  time — its  fruit,  duly  prepared,  was 
partaken  of  by  the  old  society  of  the  Knickerbockers  at  the  last 
anniversary  meeting.  Some  affirmed  it  to  be  presented  as  a 
prescription  for  the  health  of  the  members  of  the  society  by  their 
learned  and  distinguished  official  adviser,  Dr.  Francis ;  but 
whether  thus  received  or  otherwise,  all  united  in  bearing  testi- 
mony to  the  excellent  and  grateful  quality  of  the  fruit.  Lastly, 
the  lonely  tree  is  watched  over,  carefully  trimmed  when  neces- 
sary, and  protected  from  rude  assault  by  the  gentleman  residing 
on  the  corner  of  the  avenue,  Mr.  Snyder, — himself  allied  to  the 
old  Dutch  aristocracy,  and  imbued  with  love  of  antiquarian  lore. 
To  him  the  writer  of  this  sketch  is  indebted  for  some  of  the  fruit 
of  the  tree,  which  is  sealed  up  in  spirits  of  wine,  and  kept  as  a 
valuable  relic. 

Notwithstanding  that  this  venerable  tree  is  stripped  of  its 
accessories,  few,  I  apprehend,  can  contemplate  it  without  in- 
voluntary awe.  It  wears  the  aspect  of  respectable  old  age. 
Tall  and  majestic  in  form,  and  of  monarch  proportions,  its 
foliage  is  sparse  and  thin,  like  the  scattered  hairs  of  an  octo- 
genarian. Time  has  not  bowed  its  stately  head,  but  has  sorely 
rifled  its  crown  of  verdure.  The  frosts  of  many  winters  have 
nipped  its  smaller  branches,  and  one  by  one  they  have  been 
broken  off.  In  short,  the  time  is  evidently  approaching  when 
the  tree  itself,  over  which  two  centuries  have  rolled,  which  has 
seen  three  successive  dynasties,  and  so  many  passing  genera- 
tions, shall  at  last  fall  under  the  power  of  the  arch-destroyer. 

As  we  gaze  on  this  hoary  representative  of  a  vanished  sove- 
reignty, past  scenes  rise  before  us.  The  green  rural  beauty  of 
gardens  and  orchards ;  the  gradual  advance  of  the  spirit  of 
improvement ;  the  laying  out  of  streets  over  grounds  once  sacred 

8 


82  THE    GIFT. 

to  luxurious  retirement;  the  encroachment  of  the  extending 
city ;  the  invasion  of  those  quiet  scenes  by  the  rude  clamour  of 
business ;  the  destruction  of  those  beautiful  and  almost  classic 
groves,  while  we  may  imagine  a  spirit-wail  sent  up  at  every 
stroke  of  the  sacrilegious  axe ;  the  final  disappearance  of  every 
vestige  of  nature's  loveliness,  replaced  by  buildings  of  human 
industry ;  till  at  last  but  a  single  tree,  spared  only  on  account  of 
its  accidental  position,  remains  a  decaying  monument  of  what 
has  been.  What  a  lesson  does  it  read  us  of  the  instability  of  all 
earthly  things,  and  especially  of  human  institutions  ! 

Recollections  almost  equally  venerable,  and  even  more  tender 
and  personal,  belong  to  another  pear-tree,  rivaling  in  antiquity 
that  on  the  Stuyvesant  property — which  was  planted  in  1660, 
and  still  bears  fruit,  on  the  farm  of  J.  L.  Riker,  Esq.,  at  New 
Town,  Long  Island.  This  tree  was  a  shoot  from  one  that  had 
been  planted  by  Geysbert  Riker,  the  original  patentee,  in  1630. 
It  was  put  in  the  ground  by  his  grand-daughter,  Mrs.  Margaret 
Duane,  when  she  was  nine  years  old.  The  estate  had  descended 
to  her  father,  Abraham  Riker,  a  man  of  noble  and  amiable 
dispositions,  and  warmly  beloved  by  a  large  and  happy  family 
circle.  He  lived  nearly  a  century.  About  ten  years  before  his 
death  he  lost  his  sight,  but  still  continued  to  enjoy  most  cheer- 
fully the  company  and  conversation  of  his  friends  and  children. 
When  led  by  his  grandsons  about  his  grounds,  and  along  the 
pleasant  shores  of  the  Bay,  he  would  frequently  pause  to  call  up 
his  unforgotten  impressions  of  the  romantic  beauty  of  those 
cherished  scenes.  Yet  never  was  he  heard  to  murmur  that 
Heaven  had  deprived  him  of  the  most  precious  of  earthly  gifts. 

One  morning,  it  appears  to  have  been  on  a  festival  day,  the 
aged  man  requested  to  be  led  to  the  spot  where  his  son  was 
superintending  his  servants  in  the  preparation  of  a  lamb  for 
dinner,  according  to  the  patriarchal  custom  of  that  time.  He 
drew  near,  and  passing  his  hand  several  times  over  his  eyes,  at 
length  observed  in  Dutch — "That  is  a  fine  lamb,  Andrew." 
"  Do  you  see,  my  father?"  exclaimed  his  son,  with  emotions  that 


THE    STUYVESANT    PEAR-TEEE.  83 

may  be  more  easily  imagined  than  described.  "  I  do  see  it 
plainly,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  as  plainly  as  I  ever  saw  in  my  life." 
What  an  event !  The  surprised  circle  gathered  about  the  vene- 
rable man,  thus  wonderfully  restored  to  sight,  with  rejoicing  and 
thankfulness ;  but  he,  feeble  and  faint,  desired  to  be  conducted 
to  his  wonted  seat  under  the  shade  of  the  Pear-tree.  It  stood 
near  the  door.  He  was  taken  thither ;  and  leaning  against  the 
supporting  arm  of  his  son,  looking  round  him  with  a  smile  of 
peaceful  joy  on  the  faces  of  those  he  loved,  his  heart  filled  with 
gratitude  to  Heaven  for  the  blessings  of  a  happy  life  and  hope 
that  triumphed  over  death,  this  good  man,  full  of  years,  sank 
gently  into  a  serene  and  lasting  repose. 


THE  RABBIT-CATCHING. 


MUCH  may  often  be  gathered  of  the  character  of  a  child's 
mind  and  temperament  by  its  choice  of  a  pet.  Thus  the  high- 
spirited  boy  will  choose  a  dog  of  the  same  mettle,  while  the  girl 
will  lose  her  heart  to  a  cooing  dove,  or  a  canary  bird.  It  is  not 
the  entirely  domestic  breed,  they  that  come  at  your  call,  and 
give  you  no  trouble  to  seek  after  them,  that  altogether  fascinate 
their  young  hearts,  like  those  coyest,  wildest,  and  most  timid  of 
God's  creatures,  whose  confidence  is  never  more  than  half  won, 
and  less  than  half  repaid.  And  in  this  halfness  lies  a  deep 
source  of  interest :  pleasure  with  an  afterthought  of  fear. 

"Familiarity  breeds  contempt,"  says  an  old  saw,  and  this  may 
account  for  many  a  cuff  and  kick  received  by  the  sleek  tabby 
cat  and  snarling  cur ;  but  no  familiarity  can  exist  between  the 
fluttering  bird,  the  wild  fawn,  the  squirrel,  or  shy  rabbit,  and 
any  of  our  human  species,  from  three  years  old  and  upwards. 
Nature  stands  between  them  and  us,  with  her  own  laws  of 
etiquette.  Doubtless  you  have  walked  through  the  woods  of  an 
early  summer's  morning,  when  the  grass  had  grown  thickly 
over  the  pathway,  and  the  foot  fell  softly  on  the  ground,  and 
you  remember  how,  ever  and  anon,  some  nimble  squirrel,  or 
rabbit  with  pricked-up  ears,  and  shy,  anxious  eyes,  would  brush 
past  you  from  his  covert  of  leaves ;  or  one  bolder  than  the  rest, 
would  remain  sitting  by  the  road-side,  staring  at  you,  with  his 
quick,  large  eyes,  till  you  had  come  within  arm's  length  of  the 
rogue,  and  then,  up,  bound,  and  away  !  You  could  almost 
fancy  you  heard  him  laugh  at  the  joke  he  had  played  you,  as  he 


fe 

52       . 
ft 


THE    RABBIT-CATCHING.  85 

burrowed  safely  in  some  hollow  stump,  or  behind  an  old  fence. 
It  has  always  been  a  whim  with  us,  from  childhood,  to  follow 
such  "  small  deer"  to  their  snug  haunts,  and  watch  the  life  they 
lead,  and  hear  what  tales  they  tell  their  gossips  of  the  ventures 
they  have  run,  and  the  fine  juicy  nuts  they  have  cracked.  A 
fine  time  they  have  in  the  summer,  when  the  leaves  are  green, 
and  the  days  warm  ;  and  what  a  jolly  thanksgiving  they  must 
keep  when  the  nuts  are  brown  and  the  wind  shakes  the  old 
hickory  and  chestnut  trees.  What  a  wealth  comes  tumbling 
about  their  ears  in  the  clear  October  days.  They  have  the 
freedom  of  the  forest,  and  can  turn  up  their  noses  at  game  laws. 
Then  in  winter  they  have  nothing  to  do  but  roll  themselves  up 
warmly  in  their  holes,  and  sleep, — sleep — sleep,  till  the  warm 
sun  comes  again,  and  wakens  them.  Your  tame  breed  are  a 
sluggish  race  beside  them — awkward  and  clownish.  If  you 
turned  one  loose  among  them  that  had  been  nibbling  cabbage- 
leaves  and  grass  all  his  days  long,  how  green  they  would  think 
him,  and  what  merry  antics  they  would  play  upon  him.  Like 
enough  he  would  wish  himself  safe  home  again,  in  his  little  pen, 
peeping  out  for  the  food  that  the  toddling  child  brought  him 
every  morning,  with  its  long,  bright  stare  of  joy. 

Oh  how  those  days  will  rush  on  our  hearts  again  at  times : 
days  when  we  looked  lovingly,  yet  reverently  on  the  rabbit,  and 
the  white  mouse,  and  the  unfledged  bird  ; — when  we  peeped  with 
eyes  brimful  of  joy  and  wonder  into  our  first  bird's  nest,  and 
saw  how  smooth  and  soft  it  was  within,  and  how  white  and 
speckled  were  the  eggs, — real  eggs, — for  we  had  touched  them, 
and  they  were  warm.  Many  pleasures  we  may  have  hereafter, 
but  this  one  never  returns.  It  is  brushed  away  with  the  morning 
dew. 

There  must  be  great  pleasure  in  country  sports,  to  judge  by 
the  intense  enthusiasm  with  which  they  are  entered  into  by  mere 
boys.  Some  would  think  it  dull  to  angle  all  day,  or  wade  up  to 
the  knees  in  water  for  a  dish  of  sorry  fish.  But  not  so  they. 
Izaak  Walton  has  no  more  faithful  disciples.  Then  a  bird's 
nest  must  be  had  at  the  peril  of  limb  and  life. 

8* 


86  THE    GIFT. 

When  we  meet  with  these  young  enthusiasts  in  our  country 
rambles,  they  often  recall  to  us  the  faces  of  two  boys  we  once 
knew,  and  which  are  before  us  even  now  as  vividly  as  ever. 
Not  a  whit  behind  any  of  them  were  they  in  the  "  whole-hearted- 
ness"  with  which  they  followed  up  an  object  of  pursuit. 

Willie,  the  elder  of  them,  was  a  bright,  sturdy,  good-humoured 
lad,  so  ruddy-cheeked  you  would  have  thought  him  country-born, 
yet  I  doubt  whether  he  had  often  fairly  got  out  of  sight  of  the 
brick  walls  of  his  native  town  in  his  life.  His  father  was  not 
rich,  and  Willie  had  had  few  holidays ;  and  then,  in  some  way 
or  another,  he  had  conjured  up  a  supreme  contempt  for  country 
ways  and  people.  He  did  not  know  how  sweetly  the  clover 
fields  smell  in  the  spring  time,  or  how  pleasant  it  is  to  go  angling 
all  day  along  some  quiet  stream,  or  in  the  evening,  to  drive 
home  the  cows  with  their  jingling  bells,  or  to  go  harvesting,  or 
gunning,  or  nutting.  How  should  he  ?  But  for  all  this  Willie 
loved  sport  as  well  as  other  folks,  and  was  fond  of  skating, 
flying  a  kite,  or  a  game  of  marbles,  and  had  a  small  turn  for 
carpentering.  He  always  thought  of  the  country  as  a  very  dull 
place,  where  there  were  no  gay  stores,  and  not  a  sight  to  be 
seen,  except  a  cattle-show.  He  did  not  believe  country  boys 
knew  half  as  much  as  city  ones.  He  had  met  with  some  and 
did  not  like  them  overmuch.  But  Willie's  father  did  not  think 
so  too.  He  had  been  a  Yankee  boy,  and  his  earliest  recollections 
were  about  the  old  homestead  with  its  large  barn,  and  orchard, 
and  duck-pond.  True,  he  had  come  up  to  town  when  a  mere 
stripling,  and  had  toiled  early  and  late  at  his  desk  and  counter 
ever  since,  and  had  had  no  time  to  visit  the  old  place  except 
once,  years  before,  when  he  and  his  young  wife  passed  one 
short  week  of  their  honey-moon  there, — one  bright,  short,  happy 
week  in  June.  Since  then  the  old  pair  had  died,  and  Willie's 
father  had  grown  care-worn,  and  gray ;  but  he  often  wished  his 
boy  should  have  a  taste  of  what  had  seemed  so  pleasant  to  him. 
At  last  a  chance  turned  up,  far  less  to  Will's  satisfaction  than 
his  father's.  A  countryman  who  dealt  with  them  in  butter 
and  eggs,  took  a  liking  to  the  smart  lad,  and  gave  him  a  warm 


THE    RABBIT-CATCHING.  87 

invitation  to  a  "  lift"  in  his  wagon,  and  a  few  days'  visit  to  his 
farm. 

It  was  accepted ;  and  Willie  packed  up  his  bundle,  not  for- 
getting his  Sunday  coat  and  cap ;  for  he  had  a  spice  of  vanity 
in  him,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  impression  he  should  make  upon 
those  country-folks  almost  reconciled  him  to  the  plan. 

It  was  then  the  latter  end  of  October,  and  the  weather  "  frosty, 
but  kindly."  Now  the  farmer  had  a  son  of  Willie's  age,  or  rather 
a  few  months  younger, — Dick  they  called  him, — a  keen,  sharp- 
witted  urchin,  sly  and  mischievous,  but  good-hearted  at  the 
bottom.  This  boy  eyed  the  visiter  with  side-long  looks  for  a 
while,  then  edged  himself  nearer  and  nearer  to  him,  and  at  last, 
half  boldly,  half  bashfully,  commenced  a  conversation  with  him. 
First  he  questioned  him  as  to  his  skill  in  gunning  and  angling, 
both  of  which  amusements  were  passions  with  Dick, — not  that 
he  knew  much  of  shooting,  for  he  had  never  owned  a  gun,  but 
he  was  saving  his  money  purposely,  and  had  already  two  silver 
dollars  and  some  cents. 

Then  he  was  surprised  to  find  how  ignorant  Willie  was  of 
things  that  were  like  daily  bread  to  him ;  and  the  country  boy 
laughed  outright  when  he  found  that  he  did  not  know  wheat  from 
barley,  or  an  oak  from  a  maple  tree. 

Willie  felt  piqued,  but  comforted  himself  with  the  thought  that 
his  turn  would  come,  and  looked  at  the  ragged  coat  and  "  home- 
spun" of  his  companion  with  a  little  superciliousness. 

In  the  morning,  when  he  woke,  he  was  almost  bewildered  by 
the  many  sounds  he  heard  in  the  yard  below.  Cocks  crowing, 
and  geese  cackling,  dogs  barking  and  pigs  grunting,  all  mingled 
together,  made  him  rub  his  eyes  and  stare  about  him.  It  was 
only  gray  morning,  but  Dick  had  been  up  long  before,  and  at 
work.  Willie  soon  followed  him,  and  found  him  in  the  barn. 
The  bright,  good-humoured  smile  with  which  he  met  him  was 
contagious  for  Willie.  He  smiled  back  again,  and  liked  his  new 
friend  better  than  before. 

In  the  afternoon  he  and  Dick  went  nutting,  but  more  than 
once  his  pride  was  roused  when  he  found  how  much  better  the 


88  THE    GIFT. 

other  boy  could  clear  a  ditch,  leap  a  fence,  or  climb  a  tree,  than 
he  could ;  and  once,  when  he  stuck  fast  in  the  branches  of  a  tall 
old  walnut,  Willie  was  fain  to  call  his  companion  to  his  assist- 
ance, notwithstanding  something  like  a  broad  grin  on  Dick's 
honest  face.  Still  they  had  fun  enough  shaking  down  showers 
of  nuts,  the  last  of  the  season,  regaling  themselves  on  some  of 
the  largest,  and  then  filling  a  bag  which  they  had  brought  with 
them  for  the  purpose. 

Once,  as  Willie  had  mounted  on  the  highest  branches  of  one  of 
the  trees,  and  the  sun  was  shining  brightly  on  the  many-coloured 
autumnal  foliage  of  the  woods,  and  the  fresh  air  was  blowing 
sharply  on  his  face,  it  struck  him  whether  this  was  not  as  plea- 
sant as  his  city  life,  and  whether  it  were  so  dull  after  all.  But 
this  he  kept  to  himself,  and  shook  all  the  more  lustily  on  the 
branches  below  him. 

And  now  how  confidential  he  and  Dick  became !  How  they 
communicated  their  plans  and  speculations  to  one  another,  and 
exchanged  opinions  on  every  thing  that  came  uppermost. 

There  was  one  thing  Dick  desired  exceedingly,  and  that  was 
to  catch  a  live  rabbit  for  his  sister  Fanny. 

Poor  little  Fanny  was  a  sickly,  crippled  child,  of  six  or  seven 
years  old.  From  her  birth  she  had  never  known  what  health 
was,  and  her  thin  pale  face  had  a  hopeless  look  about  it  that  was 
sad  to  see.  Fanny  was  a  gentle,  grateful  child,  but  as  her 
parents  were  poor  and  had  to  work  hard,  she  was  more  ne- 
glected than  the  children  of  richer  parents  generally  are.  They 
never  taxed  her  little  strength  with  any  thing ;  but  they  had  no 
time  to  give  her  the  blessing  of  employments  that  would  have 
suited  her  powers.  So  she  went  sometimes  moaning  and  limping 
through  the  house,  or  sat  watching  the  flies  crawling  over  the 
window  panes  for  hours  together. 

And  it  was  by  no  means  from  want  of  love  that  this  happened, 
for  very  often  the  mother  would  leave  her  washing  tub,  or  her 
churn,  to  soothe  the  child  to  patience,  when  she  could  ill  spare 
the  time.  The  fault  lay  in  her  poverty. 

But  the  bright  spot  in  Fanny's  life  was   her  brother  Dick. 


THE    RABBIT-CATCHING.  89 

Dick,  who  played  so  many  sly  jokes  on  every  one  else,  always 
spared  Poor  Fanny,  unless  it  were  to  amuse  her.  Her  misfor- 
tune had  in  some  sort  sanctified  her  with  him.  Whatever  he 
found  in  his  rambles  through  the  woods  and  fields  was  always 
brought  home  to  her.  The  earliest  flowers,  and  the  latest 
berries.  Then  he  would  sing  songs,  and  tell  her  droll  stories, 
and  bear  with  all  her  waywardness ;  and  best  of  all,  as  Fanny 
thought,  he  would  carry  her  with  him  on  his  shoulders  when  he 
went  fishing,  and  would  place  her  on  some  sunny  bank,  or  under 
a  shady  tree  beside  him ;  and  then  how  proud  and  pleased  the 
child  was,  every  time  that  her  brother  drew  out  his  line,  with  a 
fish  hanging  at  the  end  of  it.  Those  were  pleasant  days  for 
Fanny ;  the  happiest  she  ever  had.  But  others  were  very  sad 
when  he  could  not  take  her  with  him,  and  she  was  listless  and 
lonely  all  day  long.  It  was  then  that  Fanny  longed  for  some 
pet,  something  that  should  be  alive,  and  would  eat  out  of  her 
hand,  and  follow  after  her.  There  was  her  doll,  to  be  sure,  but 
she  had  grown  tired  of  that.  And  the  cat  was  cross  and  not  to 
be  played  with  at  peril  of  her  claws.  So  a  little  rabbit  seemed 
just  the  thing  to  suit,  and  a  rabbit  Dick  was  determined  she 
should  have.  But  "  first  catch  your  hare,"  says  Mrs.  Glasse, 
and  this  was  the  puzzle  for  Dick.  Thus  far  they  had  always 
been  too  sharp  for  him.  Now  he  meant  to  set  a  trap  for  them 
that  a  neighbour  had  promised  to  lend  him,  and  Willie  and  he 
were  to  fix  upon  some  favourable  spot  for  their  operations.  He 
knew  of  a  place,  about  half  a  mile  across  the  fields,  just  near  the 
wood,  where  there  were  plenty  of  them.  He  had  been  there 
with  his  father  gunning  not  long  before,  and  the  wild  things  were 
scampering  about  "  like  mad."  So  away  Willie  and  he  went 
the  very  next  day  to  reconnoitre.  They  took  with  them  a  large 
old  wooden  trap  that  the  neighbour  lent  them,  and,  although  they 
did  not  find  so  much  game  as  Dick  led  his  companion  to  expect, 
a  pair  of  frightened  creatures  bounded  once  across  their  path, 
and  ran  into  the  thick  woods  beyond.  Willie  was  for  running 
after  them,  but  Dick  knew  that  a  race  between  them  would  be 
no  fair  one,  and  held  him  back.  They  set  their  trap  very  care- 


90  THE    GIFT. 

fully  on  the  slope  of  a  hill,  under  a  clump  of  trees,  and  with 
hearts  full  of  hope  returned  home  to  the  farm.  Dick  was  quite 
elated  by  the  thought  that  perhaps  to-morrow  he  should  be  able 
to  bring  Fanny  home  a  rabbit  at  last.  He  even  set  to  work  to 
make  a  sort  of  pen  for  its  accommodation,  and  form  a  code  of 
laws  for  its  management. 

The  next  morning  Willie  woke  as  early  as  Dick  to  a  minute, 
and  both  boys  dressed  themselves  quickly,  and  then  sallied  out, 
on  tip-toe  with  expectation.  They  walked  briskly  along  over 
the  stubble  fields,  white  with  frost,  till  they  came  to  the  hill 
beyond,  which  was  covered  with  woods,  now  glowing  in  all  the 
red  and  golden  glory  of  October.  Then  their  hearts  began  to 
beat  quicker,  and  instinctively  they  quickened  their  pace  still 
more.  At  last  they  came  in  sight  of  the  very  spot,  and  then 
each  boy  turned  a  blank  look  of  disappointment  on  the  other. 
The  trap  had  not  been  touched.  The  door  was  still  open  and 
the  bait  was  there. 

Poor  Dick  !  "  Try  again,"  said  Willie.  "  It's  only  the  first 
day.  Maybe  they'll  come  to-morrow."  Dick's  open  face 
cleared  up  in  a  minute  or  two,  and  he  bent  down  over  the  trap 
to  see  if  all  was  right.  All  was  right, — -just  as  he  had  left  it 
the  day  before.  Not  a  sign  of  a  rabbit  any  where  about.  They 
had  not  startled  one  on  their  way.  "  I've  heard  they  were  cun- 
ning things,"  said  Dick,  as  they  were  returning  home.  "  Do  ye 
think  they  knew  it  was  a  trap  ?"  Willie  didn't  know. 

Little  Fanny  was  sitting  at  the  door,  watching  for  her  brother 
to  come  back  with  what  he  had  promised  her,  and,  as  she  saw 
him  return  empty-handed,  two  large  tears  started  to  her  eyes, 
but  she  brushed  them  away  again  quickly,  for  fear  he  should  see 
them,  and  she  noticed  with  a  sigh  that  he  did  not  promise  to 
bring  her  one  to-morrow.  Poor  Fanny  had  had  many  such 
crosses  to  bear,  but  had  not  got  used  to  them. 

The  next  morning  the  boys  started  out  again,  and  reached  the 
place  in  less  time  than  before. 

Hurra !  the  trap  was  sprung  this  time,  sure  enough.  How 
they  rushed  forward,  and  their  hands  almost  shook  with  eager- 


THE    RABBIT-CATCHING.  91 

ness,  as  they  stooped  down  to  open  it  slowly  and  cautiously. 
But  then  they  started  back  even  more  disappointed  than  before. 
It  was  empty — quite  empty !  Not  a  trace  of  any  thing  having 
been  there,  and  yet  the  bait  was  gone.  They  saw  it  must  have 
been  taken  before  the  trap  was  sprung.  Willie  set  to  work,  and 
with  his  carpenter's  eye  soon  discovered  that  the  construction  of 
the  trap  was  by  no  means  good.  He  proposed  to  Dick  that 
they  should  make  a  better  one  for  themselves.  He  could  handle 
a  saw,  plane,  and  hammer,  and  he  was  sure  they  could  manage 
it.  Dick  knew  a  carpenter  who  was  good-humoured,  and  would 
lend  them  his  tools  for  a  little  while,  and  perhaps  give  them  the 
wood,  and  they  would  tell  Fanny  nothing  about  it,  till  they  had 
really  caught  something.  It  took  the  boys  several  days  to  ac- 
complish their  object.  First  one  attempt  failed,  and  then  another. 
But  they  did  not  get  disheartened,  and  the  mystery  with  which 
the  whole  affair  was  carried  on,  enhanced  its  interest. 

Sometimes  Will  wondered  how  country  sports  could  please 
him  so  much,  and  how  dull  a  game  of  marbles  seemed  to  him 
after  them.  He  forgot,  too,  all  the  fine  stories  he  had  intended 
to  tell  his  companion  of  the  city  and  its  sights,  and  the  home- 
spun also  was  overlooked. 

At  last  the  trap  was  finished,  to  the  satisfaction  of  both  of 
them,  and  they  carried  it  in  triumph,  that  very  day,  to  the  place 
they  had  chosen  before. 

It  was  set  with  all  care,  and  then,  with  hearts  as  sanguine  as 
ever,  they  went  their  way  home. 

That  night  in  their  dreams  they  saw  nothing  but  rabbits. 
They  started  from  under  their  pillows,  or  at  their  feet, — here, 
there,  and  every  where.  Now  they  had  them  in  their  hands, 
and  then  again  they  were  gone 

In  the  morning  when  they  woke,  they  found,  to  their  utter 
surprise,  the  whole  landscape  covered  with  the  first,  dazzling, 
white  snow  of  winter.  It  almost  seemed  like  magic.  Willie, 
for  one,  hardly  believed  his  eyes,  every  thing  seemed  so  changed. 
Their  first  thought  was  that  some  accident  might  have  befallen 
their  trap.  Dick  hurried  on  his  ragged  coat,  and  Willie  fol- 


92  THE    GIFT. 

lowed  him,  scarcely  remembering  the  road,  it  looked  so  different 
from  before.  The  bright  autumn  leaves  were  still  hanging  on 
the  trees,  and  some  were  bending  and  creaking  with  the  weight 
of  the  snow. 

The  fields  looked  so  white  and  smooth  that  it  was  hard  to  find 
the  path.  The  fall  had  not  been  heavy,  and  in  wooded  places 
it  looked  strange  to  see  the  red,  fallen  leaves  peeping  above  their 
white  coverlid.  It  had  stopped  snowing  now,  and  the  sun  was 
coming  out,  and  the  air  was  still  and  cold.  The  boys  blew  their 
fingers  to  keep  them  warm,  and  pulled  their  caps  over  their  ears. 
A  sportsman  must  have  been  that  way  yesterday,  for  Willie 
found  a  rabbit  that  had  been  shot  lying  half  covered  by  the 
snow,  beside  a  fence.  He  took  it  up  and  carried  it  along  with 
him. 

The  first  thing  that  struck  Dick's  sharp  eyes,  and  made  his 
heart  leap,  were  the  prints  of  rabbits'  feet  in  the  snow.  He 
pointed  them  out  to  his  companion.  They  followed  them,  and 
they  went  straight  to  the  trap.  It  was  sprung.  For  a  moment 
they  paused  in  breathless  eagerness,  and  then  Dick  hurried  for- 
ward. How  their  eyes  sparkled,  and  their  cheeks  glowed  as 
they  knelt  down  both  beside  it,  and  opened  it  cautiously ;  and 
there,  cowering  in  one  corner,  beheld  their  little  captive,  with  its 
soft  brown  skin,  and  large,  timid  eyes. 

We  believe,  verily,  that  men  do  not  catch  kingdoms  with  half 
the  real,  intense,  whole-souled  delight  that  boys  catch  rabbits. 
How  proudly  they  carried  off  the  trembling  creature,  that  was 
placed,  for  the  present,  in  the  safe  custody  of  the  large  pocket 
of  Willie's  overcoat.  Little  Fanny  was  seated,  as  she  often  was, 
on  the  window-seat  of  the  large  kitchen,  that  also  served  the 
family  for  a  dining-room. 

But  she  did  not  see  the  boys  coming,  until  they  were  close 
beside  her.  Then  Dick  took  the  rabbit  and  held  it  up  trium- 
phantly before  her.  The  child  bounded  to  them  with  a  scream 
of  joy,  and  a  face  that  beamed  with  pleasure.  Dick  let  her 
stroke  its  smooth  fur,  and  pat  its  head,  and  look  with  childish 
delight,  again  and  again,  at  its  pretty  brown  eyes  and  little  feet. 


THE    RABBIT-CATCHING.  93 

Then  she  saw  it  safely  lodged  in  its  pen,  and  fed  it  herself  with 
her  whole  apron  full  of  cabbage-leaves,  and  was  as  happy  as  a 
queen  the  while.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  how  a  ray  of  sunshine 
had  animated  the  child's  sick  soul.  Dick  and  Willie,  too,  felt 
like  heroes  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  and  laid  in  prospective  all 
manner  of  traps  for  all  manner  of  game.  Willie  must  be  a 
man  now,  and  must  have  laid  in  wait  for  many  a  more  impor- 
tant prize  than  this,  yet  we  feel  sure  that  his  contempt  for  the 
country  never  returned,  nor  was  the  episode  of  the  rabbit-catch- 
ing ever  forgotten.  Perhaps  even,  at  times,  he  has  lost  sight  of 
the  busy  world  around  him,  and  beheld  himself  once  again  as 
the  simple,  eager  boy  he  then  was,  and  the  rustle  of  the  trees, 
and  the  murmur  of  the  brook  has  come  back  to  him,  and  stirred 
the  depths  of  his  man's  heart. 


DIRGE. 


BY  R.  W.  EMERSON. 

KNOWS  he  who  tills  this  lonely  field 

To  reap  its  scanty  corn, 
What  mystic  fruit  his  acres  yield 

At  midnight  and  at  morn  ? 

In  the  long  sunny  afternoon 
The  plain  was  full  of  ghosts, 

I  wandered  up,  I  wandered  down, 
Beset  by  pensive  hosts. 

The  winding  Concord  gleamed  below, 

Pouring  as  wide  a  flood 
As  when  my  brothers,  long  ago, 

Came  with  me  to  the  wood. 

But  they  are  gone, — the  holy  ones 
Who  trod  with  me  this  lonely  vale, 

The  strong,  star-bright  companions 
Are  silent,  low,  and  pale. 

My  good,  my  noble,  in  their  prime, 
Who  made  this  world  the  feast  it  was, 

Who  learned  with  me  the  lore  of  time, 
Who  loved  this  dwelling-place. 


DIRGE.  95 

They  took  this  valley  for  their  toy, 

They  played  with  it  in  every  mood, 
A  cell  for  prayer,  a  hall  for  joy, 

They  treated  Nature  as  they  would. 

They  coloured  the  whole  horizon  round, 
Stars  flamed  and  faded  as  they  bade, 

All  echoes  hearkened  for  their  sound, 
They  made  the  woodlands  glad  or  mad. 

I  touch  this  flower  of  silken  leaf 

Which  once  our  childhood  knew, 
Its  soft  leaves  wound  me  with  a  grief 

Whose  balsam  never  grew. 

Hearken  to  yon  pine  warbler, 

Singing  aloft  in  the  tree  ; 
Hearest  thou,  O  traveller ! 

What  he  singeth  to  me  ? 

Not  unless  God  made  sharp  thine  ear 

With  sorrow  such  as  mine, 
Out  of  that  delicate  lay  couldst  thou 

Its  heavy  tale  divine. 

"  Go,  lonely  man,"  it  saith, 

"  They  loved  thee  from  their  birth, 
Their  hands  were  pure,  and  pure  their  faith, 

There  are  no  such  hearts  on  earth. 

"  Ye  drew  one  mother's  milk, 

One  chamber  held  ye  all, 
A  very  tender  history 

Did  in  your  childhood  fall. 


96  THE    GIFT. 

"  Ye  cannot  unlock  your  heart, 
The  key  is  gone  with  them ; 

The  silent  organ  loudest  chaunts 
The  master's  requiem." 


THE  INN  AT  CRANSAC. 

FROM   THE   GERMAN   OF   ZSCHOKKE. 
BY  W.  H.  FURNESS. 

"  WHAT  place  is  that  before  us  ?"  said  I  to  the  postilion. 

"  Cransac,  Mr.  Captain." 

"  Cransac  ?  Can  I  get  a  comfortable  lodging  over  night 
there?" 

"  Right  easily.  There  is  an  excellent  inn.  None  better  far 
and  wide." 

It  was  a  very  agreeable  piece  of  information,  for  I  began  to 
feel  very  tired.  It  is  no  trifle  to  be  compelled  to  rise  half-reco- 
vered from  a  sick  bed,  and  make  a  journey  of  several  hundred 
leagues.  My  regiment  lay  at  Perpignan,  and  I  had  come  from 
Nantes.  Something  of  a  journey  !  And  from  Perpignan  there 
awaited  me  a  pretty  march  at  the  head  of  my  company  through 
the  cursed  Catalonia,  where  already  many  a  brave  Frenchman 
had  found  his  grave. 

We  entered  a  small  village  prettily  situated  at  the  foot  of  a 
wooded  hill.  We  stopt  before  a  neat  house.  Thomas,  my  ser- 
vant, sprang  down  and  assisted  me  out  of  the  carriage.  The 
landlord,  a  kindly  man,  conducted  me  into  his  parlour,  after 
he  had  given  the  necessary  directions  to  his  people  about  my 
baggage. 

The  room,  which  was  large,  neat,  and  cheerful,  swarmed  with 
little  girls.  Some  were  seated  at  a  table  and  some  under  it, 
while  others  were  gathered  at  the  window,  and  the  smallest  were 

9* 


98  THE    GIFT. 

playing  on  the  floor.  A  young  maiden  of  about  sixteen  carried 
a  child  of  a  year  old  in  her  arms,  and  was  dancing  round  with 
it  among  the  rest.  In  the  corner  of  the  room  sate  a  young  man, 
who,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  appeared  to  be  sunk  in 
thought,  and  to  trouble  himself  very  little  about  the  noise  of  the 
children,  or  the  grace  of  the  fair  dancer. 

"  Hush !  hush !"  cried  the  landlord  as  he  entered  the  room. 
"  Annette,  carry  this  wild  troop  out  of  doors  !  And,  Fanchon, 
do  thou  prepare  a  room  for  this  gentleman,  No.  8.  He  will 
remain  over  night." 

In  obedience  to  this  command,  Annette,  a  lovely  Amorette  of 
about  fourteen,  led  out  the  swarm  of  little  ones.  Fanchon,  the 
dancer,  with  a  slight  but  graceful  bow  of  welcome  to  me,  danced 
up  to  the  thoughtful  young  man,  and  exclaimed :  "  Here,  Mr. 
Philosopher,  please  to  be  so  kind  as  to  amuse  my  little  sister. 
I  hope  you  will  be  gallant."  With  these  words  she  put  the  child 
she  was  carrying  into  his  lap.  He  did  not  appear  pleased,  but 
he  took  the  child. 

"  You  are  plentifully  blessed,  Mr.  Landlord,"  said  I,  and 
pointed  to  the  playing  group  of  children :  "  do  they  all  belong 
to  you  ?" 

"  I  should  be  very  well  satisfied  if  they  were  all  mine,  just  for 
the  curiosity  of  the  thing,"  said  Herr  Albret,  so  the  landlord  was 
named  :  "  but  only  about  half  of  them  are  mine.  The  other  half 
are  their  playmates,  who  have  come  to  celebrate  the  birthday  of 
my  third  child." 

"  And  how  many  children  have  you,  Mr.  Albret  ?" 

"  Six  girls,  no  more." 

"  Heaven  help  us  !  all  girls  ?     Six  girls  !" 

"  Heaven  be  praised,  you  should  say,  Mr.  Captain.  A  father 
can  desire  no  better  fortune,  if  the  girls  are  all  pretty.  For 
something  of  their  brightness  is  reflected  upon  him.  All  the 
world  caresses  him,  because  all  the  world  loves  his  pretty 
maidens.  I  have  some  experience  of  that  already,  and  Fanchon 
gains  much  favour  for  me.  When  she  is  gone,  folks  will  bow 
to  me  for  Annette's  sake.  And  when  Annette  goes,  then  Juliette 


THE    INN    AT    CRANSAC.  99 

will  take  her  place,  and  then  comes  Caton,  and  then  for  Celes- 
tine,  and  then  Lison,  and  then — whoever  comes  next." 

"  Yet  confess,  Mr.  Albret,  the  prospect  is  not  very  agreeable. 
By  and  by,  they  will  all  have  their  husbands,  and  your  house 
will  be  desolate." 

"  I  see  the  case  differently.  I  only  put  my  capital  out  at 
interest,  when  I  give  away  my  daughters.  Then  I  shall  become 
a  grandpapa,  and  the  young  folks  will  bring  their  children  to 
me.  That's  a  new  pleasure  in  life." 

"You  know  how  to  console  yourself,  Mr.  Albret.  But  six 
fine  boys,  instead  of  six  girls,  might  well  have  made  you  proud  ?" 

"  Boys  ?  God  forbid !  The  wild  chaps  would  have  turned  my 
hair  gray  before  this  time  with  their  tricks  and  roguery,  while 
my  daughters  are  making  me  young  again  every  day.  Had  I 
sons,  one  would  dry  up  as  a  tradesman,  over  the  multiplication 
table,  another  would  be  crippled  for  his  fatherland,  a  third  killed 
in  the  same  cause,  a  fourth  would  go  wandering  over  land  and 
sea,  the  fifth  would  be  a  good-for-nothing,  and  the  sixth  would 
be  more  cunning  than  his  father.  It  would  all  come  to  nothing." 

At  this  moment  Fanchon  hopped  lightly  in,  and  with  a  gentle 
bow  said  to  me,  "  Your  room  is  ready.  You  can  take  posses- 
sion of  it."  The  landlord  was  called  away.  I  took  my  hat  to 
seek  my  room. 

"Permit  me,"  said  Fanchon,  "let  me  have  the  honour  of 
showing  you  the  way."  Then  with  a  spring  or  two  she  stood 
before  the  young  man  to  whom  she  had  entrusted  the  child : 
"Mr.  Philosopher,  you  are  very  naughty  to  your  little  lady. 
See  how  Lison  laughs  at  you.  Come  quickly,  kiss  her  hand 
and  beg  her  pardon."  With  that  she  put  the  little  hand  of  the 
baby  to  his  lips.  The  young  man  smiled  gloomily,  and  scarcely 
looked  up. 

Then  she  sprang  towards  me  and  repeated :  "  Let  me  have  the 
honour."  So  she  flew  before  me  up  stairs.  She  opened  the 
door  of  a  neat  little  room.  She  had  to  wait  awhile  for  me.  I 
apologized  for  the  slowness  of  my  movements  on  account  of  my 
late  illness. 


100  THE    GIFT. 

"  You  will  recover  entirely  with  us,"  said  she ;  "  the  baths  of 
Cransac  do  wonders,  you  know." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  them,  fair  Fanchon.  Then  you  have 
baths  here?" 

"  The  most  celebrated  in  the  world.  Folks  come  hither  even 
from  Toulouse  and  Montpellier.  Every  one  goes  away  perfectly 
cured  and  happy." 

"  But  who  could  leave  you  and  be  happy,  fair  Fanchon  ?" 

"  Let  me  take  care  of  that  when  the  time  comes  for  folks  to 
go,  Mr.  Captain.  I  know  how  to  tease  them  until  they  are  glad 
to  get  rid  of  me." 

"  O,  I  pray,  do  me  the  honour  to  tease  me  a  little  bit." 

"  I  will  see  about  it ; — but  now  I  must  go  and  take  the  baby 
from  the  philosopher  down  below." 

"Who  is  the  gentleman,  may  I  ask,  whom  you  call  your 
philosopher  ?" 

"  A  very  amiable,  intelligent,  and  agreeable  young  man,  who 
has  only  one  fault,  that  he  can't  laugh,  seldom  speaks,  and  when 
he  speaks,  it  is  only  to  express  his  dissatisfaction.  He  calls 
himself  Herr  Von  Ormy,  and  is  a  visiter  to  the  baths,  and 
wishes  them  to  the because  they  smell  so  of  brimstone." 

With  these  words  she  courtesied  and  vanished. 

I  confess  the  maiden  was  pretty  enough  to  tease  any  of  us. 
I  resolved  to  remain  the  next  day  at  Cransac  and  try  the  baths. 
Where  could  I  find  better  company  and  entertainment?  I 
needed  the  recreation. 

The  solitude  of  my  chamber  grew  wearisome.  I  went  down 
to  look  at  the  beautiful  butterfly,  Fanchon.  She  fluttered  about, 
God  knows  whither.  I  found  no  company  but  Herr  Von  Ormy's, 
who  stood  drumming  a  march  on  the  window-pane. 

I  inquired  of  him  concerning  the  nature  of  the  baths.  He 
replied,  "  They  smell  worse  than  rotten  eggs."  I  remarked  that 
I  had  not  come  particularly  on  account  of  the  water :  "  So  much 
the  better  for  you."  I  observed  that  the  country  round  seemed 
to  be  very  agreeable.  "  What  if  it  is  ?"  said  he,  "  the  folks  are 
so  much  the  more  disagreeable."  "  One  might,  however,  endure 


THE    INN    AT    CRANSAC.  101 

a  Fanchon  pretty  well,"  added  I.  "  As  well  as  a  hornet  that  is 
for  ever  buzzing  about  one's  head." 

Just  then  I  turned  my  back  upon  him  and  he  gave  a  loud  cry. 
I  started.  I  was  about  to  assist  him  when  I  saw  Fanchon  stand- 
ing before  him  in  a  lovely,  menacing  posture  with  a  needle  in 
her  hand,  with  which  she  had  just  pricked  his  shoulder,  "  Don't 
you  know,  then,  my  gentleman,  that  we  hornets  know  how  to 
sting?  That  is  the  lightest  of  my  punishments,  beware  of  the 
heaviest !" 

"  Then  you  are  going  to  sting  his  heart  ?"  said  I. 

"  O,  one  can  do  nothing  there  with  Herr  Von  Ormy,"  replied 
she,  and  quickly  vanished. 

The  young  man  murmured  something  and  left  the  room.  It 
was  a  strange  sight  to  me.  I  had  never  before  seen  a  young 
man,  who  appeared  to  be  possessed  of  so  many  advantages,  so 
insensible  to  the  roguery  of  a  pretty  girl. 

I  cared  not  to  remain  alone.  I  went  out  to  look  at  the  house 
and  its  surroundings,  and  stepped  into  the  garden  close  by, 
where  Fanchon's  younger  sister,  Annette,  was  watering  the 
flowers.  I  watched  with  pleasure,  the  activity  of  the  pretty 
creature.  I  accounted  her  father  happy.  This  angel,  on  the 
borders  of  childhood,  with  all  the  innocence  of  that  period,  and 
yet  already  blooming  in  the  opening  charms  of  womanhood, 
hovering  now  among  the  flowers,  seemed  more  bewitchingly 
ideal  than  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  Madonna  of  the  Rock. 

"  Who  comes  there  ?"  she  asked  without  looking  round,  when 
she  heard  my  footsteps. 

"A  thief!"  said  I. 

"  What  is  he  going  to  steal  ?"  she  asked  with  a  laugh,  but 
without  looking  towards  me. 

"  Annette's  prettiest  flowers." 

With  that  she  sat  down  her  watering-pot,  and  came  half 
timidly  towards  me  and  said  :  "  I  should  like  to  see  which  they 
are." 

I  cast  my  eyes  round  and  saw  a  half-blown  moss-rose.  "  May 
I  break  it  ?"  I  asked. 


102  THE    GIFT. 

"  A  thief  must  not  ask  !"  she  replied,  and  handed  me  a  little 
pair  of  scissors. 

"  I  do  not  steal  it  for  myself!"  said  I. 

"  To  whom  will  you  give  that  little  rose  ?"  she  asked. 

"  To  the  prettiest  girl  in  Cransac." 

"  Well,  sir,  that  I  will  permit.  But  do  you  know  the  girls 
of  Cransac  already  ?  You  have  been  here  scarcely  an  hour." 

"  I  only  know  the  prettiest  one." 

"  You  make  me  very  curious,  sir ;  pray  let  me  go  with  you." 

"  I  pray  you  now,  stand  still  just  a  moment !"  I  replied,  and 
quickly  stuck  the  rose  in  the  riband  which  confined  her  rich 
brown  locks. 

"  You  are  mistaken  !  you  are  mistaken  !  My  sister  Fanchon 
is  the  prettiest  of  all." 

"  How  can  you  contradict  me,  lovely  Annette  ?  Are  you  to 
be  the  judge  in  your  own  case?  If  I  insist  that  I  hold  you  to  be 
the  prettiest  of  the  pretty  in  Cransac,  what  have  you  to  say  to 
that?" 

"  Nothing,  but  that  you  convince  me,  that  the  maiden  who  is 
nearest  to  you  is  always  the  prettiest  in  your  eyes." 

So  we  prattled  on.  She  kept  the  rose.  She  led  me  round 
among  all  her  flower  treasures.  We  were  soon  very  well  ac- 
quainted, and  before  the  day  was  over,  I  was  well  established  in 
the  family.  Frau  Albret,  the  mother  of  the  six  girls,  was  an 
amiable  woman,  talkative,  full  of  spirits  like  the  rest.  Only  the 
surly  Ormy  kept  to  his  humour  amidst  all  our  jests  and  laughter. 

My  one  day  at  Cransac  grew  into  eight  days.  Every  evening 
I  packed  up  for  the  following  morning,  and  every  morning  I 
unpacked.  Fanchon  kept  her  word  honestly,  and  teased  me 
even  more  than  the  philosopher,  who  remained  insensible  to  all 
her  tricks.  Never  was  I  teased  so  sweetly,  so  painfully.  How 
could  I  look  unmoved  upon  the  lovely,  tender,  airy  Sylphid  play- 
ing her  antics  around  me  ?  I  felt  how  dangerous  she  was  to  my 
repose,  and  I  armed  myself  in  vain.  She  herself,  scarcely  en- 
tered into  her  sixteenth  year,  dreamed  of  no  peril.  She  played 


THE    INN    AT    CRJ^SAC.  103 

with  Love's  arrows,  without  dreaming  oA  their  sharpness.  To 
all  the  magic  of  maiden  loveliness  she  added  the  simplicity  of  a 
child.  If  one  said  any  thing  to  her  particularly  tender,  she 
turned  it  instantly  into  a  jest. 

I  sometimes  thought  that  some  feeling  for  me  was  stirring  in 
her  heart,  when  she  sat  silent,  when  her  look  seemed  to  rest  on 
me  with  pleasure,  and  an  indefinable,  intelligent  senile  lightened 
her  eyes  and  seemed  to  wish  to  say :  "  Understate!  me,  Incredu- 
lous !"  But  no.  It  was  only  her  good  nature,  i  certain  warm- 
heartedness which,  through  her  ignorance  of  me  world,  finely 
accorded  with  the  generosity  of  her  mind.  Sne  remained  ever 
the  same,  and  evidently  felt  for  me  no  mote  man  she  felt  for  all 
to  whom  she  wished  well.  Coquettish  she  was  not  and  had  no 
need  to  be.  For  she  pleased  and  won  all  .hearts,  and  knew  that 
she  pleased.  This  did  not  make  her  vain,/but  only  inspired  her 
with  that  thankful  friendliness  towards /all  the  world,  which 
children  show,  with  whom  e\  *y  one  loves  to  play.  And  the 
womanly  tenderness,  the  maidenly  notfleness  which  is  always 
found  in  union  with  innocence,  gave  /even  to  her  roguery,  a 
dignity  which  permitted  no  one  to  forget,  that  he  could  not  in- 
fringe the  bounds  of  delicacy,  without  for  ever  forfeiting  her 
esteem. 

It  sometimes  seemed  as  if  the  young  misanthrope,  Ormy,  had 
greater  influence  over  her  than  any  ojfher.  It  must  be  confessed, 
he  was  a  man  whose  exterior  was/  very  pleasing.  Even  his 
moody  humour  had  something  attractive  in  it.  While  nothing 
went  right  with  him,  his  bearing  towards  all  was  strictly  correct. 
And  although  he  was  continually  grumbling,  he  was  thoroughly 
good-hearted.  Once  I  entered  the  parlour  when  Fanchon,  while 
he  sat  with  folded  arms,  and  did  not  even  look  at  her,  was  part- 
ing the  hair  from  his  forehead  and  pretending  to  smooth  the 
wrinkles  out  of  his  brow.  I  confess,  the  sight  of  this  intimacy 
awakened  my  jealousy.  But  she  was  so  little  serious  that, 
although  her  parents  came  in  at  the  same  moment  with  me,  she 
did  not  alter  her  position  in  the  least,  but  went  on  with  the  jest, 
until  we  all  had  to  laugh.  When  mention  was  made  of  his 


104  THE    GIFT. 

going,  she  was  so  indifferent  about  it,  that  in  her  usual  manner, 
she  gave  him  her  advice  with  a  comical  gravity :  "  Go,"  said 
she,  "  with  Mr.  Captain  to  Spain.  There  is  the  true  Paradise  of 
man-haters.  They  kill  one  another  there  whenever  they  meet ; 
and  there,  Mr.  Von  Ormy,  you  will  be  certain  to  get  clear  of 
folks  in  one  way  or  another." 

Her  sister  Annette  had  the  same  imperturbable  joyousness,  the 
same  vivacity  and  grace,  only  she  was  more  of  a  child.  Conse- 
quently there  was  more  earnestness  in  her  than  in  Fanchon. 
There  was  a  wondrous  elevation  in  this  innocence.  Her  features 
were  more  regular.  One  might  say  that  she  was  more  beautiful 
than  Fanchon;  but  it  was  impossible  to  determine  which  was 
the  most  lovely. 

It  delighted  me  to  observe  the  differences  and  peculiarities  in 
these  two  fair  creatures.  Annette  took  more  to  me.  The  surly 
moods  of  Herr  Von  Ormy  did  not  please  her.  "  It  goes  against 
me,"  said  she ;  "  I  love  the  sky,  blue  and  clear."  With  childish 
confidence  she  communicated  to  me  all  her  little  secrets,  sought 
my  advice  in  whatever  she  proposed.  Even  about  her  dress, 
and  what  she  should  wear,  my  opinion  must  be  given. 

The  child  wove  her  chains  around  me.  Annette  knew  how 
to  beseech  one  to  her  will  most  movingly.  When  I  had  inti- 
mated my  unchangeable  determination  to  leave  Cransac  at  the 
end  of  the  eight  days,  I  was  forced  to  yield  to  her,  if  Ormy, 
who  had  resolved  to  go  with  me  to  Perpignan,  and  who  was 
even  more  bent  upon  going  than  I,  would  consent  to  remain  a 
couple  of  days  longer. 

I  was  surprised  when  Ormy  came  and  begged  that  our  depar- 
ture should  be  delayed  some  days  longer.  "  Have  you  let 
yourself  be  persuaded  by  Annette  ?"  I  asked ;  "  that  is  what  I 
had  not  expected  of  you." 

"  Ah !"  said  he,  and  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  face  as  if  he 
would  chase  away  a  faint  smile  that  stole  upon  him :  "  I  could 
not  put  off  the  poor  child,  when  I  saw  that  my  refusal  brought 
tears  into  her  eyes.  I  had  to  enter  into  a  capitulation  with  the 
little  witch,  and  she  talked  me  out  of  eight  days  more  under  the 


THE    INN    AT   CRANSAC.  105 

promise  that  she  would  not  utter  a  syllable  then.  And  when  I 
yielded  at  last — and  how  could  I  help  it  ? — she  fell  into  a  rapture 
of  delight,  and  even  gave  me  a  kiss,  a  right  hearty  one." 

"  Oh  !"  I  exclaimed,  "  for  such  a  price  one  would  readily  sell 
himself  or  a  fellow-traveller." 

"  You  may  travel,  Mr.  Captain,  if  you  will,  but  my  promise 
binds  me.  It  would  be  very  pleasant  to  accompany  you  upon 
your  journey  to  Perpignan." 

I  assured  him  that  I  was  so  dependent  upon  the  pleasure  of 
his  company,  that  I  should  delay  my  going  for  a  week,  and 
besides,  that  the  rest  would  be  beneficial  to  my  scarcely  restored 
health. 

When  I  next  saw  Annette,  she  hopped  and  danced  with  an 
air  of  triumph  before  me. 

"Hurrah!"  said  she  laughing,  "one  can  tame  a  half-savage, 
like  Mr.  Von  Ormy,  after  all !" 

"  1  believe  it,"  said  I ;  "  with  such  powerful  means  as  you  used 
with  him,  you  might  overpower  me  also.  But  I  envy  him  less 
the  art  with  which  you  brought  him  to  capitulate,  than  the 
reward  which  you  afterwards  gave  him." 

She  smiled  and  remained  silent  with  an  air  of  indescribable 
sweetness. 

"At  least,  I  may  ask,"  I  continued,  "  without  being  unreasona- 
ble for  the  same  sweet  reward  which  he  received  without  asking." 

She  looked  at  me  earnestly  with  a  strange,  penetrating  expres- 
sion, while  a  gentle  blush  overspread  her  angel  face.  Suddenly 
she  turned  round  and  danced  off,  trilling  a  ballad.  The  reward 
I  did  not  receive.  Now  first  I  began  to  suspect  that  with  her, 
as  with  her  sister  Fanchon,  I  had  been  playing  the  good-natured 
fool.  I  had  taken  to  myself  in  part,  what  was  meant  only  for 
Ormy.  I  pretended  to  be  contented. 

The  eight  days  soon  passed  away.  I  regretted  often  after- 
wards that  I  had  so  protracted  my  stay  at  Cransac  with  this 
captivating  family.  For  ever  nearer  and  closer,  had  I  woven 
my  affections  into  their  hearts.  Fanchon's  beauty  had  made 

10 


106  THE    GIFT. 

too  deep  an  impression  on  me.  I  loved  the  maiden  with  in- 
creasing ardour,  and  was  the  more  unhappy  as  I  was  convinced 
that  it  was  not  in  the  slightest  degree  returned.  She  was  neither 
more  reserved  nor  more  cordial  than  on  the  first  day  we  met. 
She  appeared  to  have  a  greater  interest  in  the  moody  Ormy. 
But  truly  Ormy  was  no  older  than  I,  nor  I  any  younger  than  he. 

Hitherto,  I  confess,  I  had  trifled  with  women  without  under- 
standing myself.  But  Fanchon  was  my  first  love,  and  I  had 
need  of  all  my  strength  to  save  myself  from  being  ridiculous. 
At  last  the  hour  of  departure  came ;  and  I  was  glad  it  had 
come,  however  painful  it  might  be. 

The  parents  were  as  friendly  at  the  parting  as  at  the  arrival. 
Von  Ormy  was  as  cold  and  dry  as  any  one  can  be,  who  leaves 
an  inn  to  continue  his  journey.  Fanchon,  who  never  appeared  to 
me  more  lovely  than  at  this  moment  when  I  was  about  to  leave, 
showed  herself  wholly  unchanged.  They  all  wished  us,  with 
equal  kindness,  a  pleasant  journey,  accompanying  the  farewell 
with  some  lively  sallies,  and  seeming  to  make  it  a  point  to  lessen, 
as  much  as  possible,  the  disagreeableness  one  feels  in  separating 
from  persons  with  whom  he  has  spent  a  number  of  pleasant  days 
and  weeks. 

The  little  Annette  alone  showed  more  emotion.  She  held  my 
hand  long ;  then  she  ran  off,  and  returned  again  with  a  fresh- 
blown  moss-rose  and  put  it  into  my  hand,  while  she  showed  me 
a  withered  one,  which  I  immediately  recognised  as  the  one  I 
had  given  her  upon  the  first  day  of  our  acquaintance.  She 
uttered  not  a  word.  Her  countenance  wore  an  expression  of 
melancholy.  When  I  kissed  her  hand  at  parting  she  fell  upon 
my  neck,  kissed  me,  and  sobbing  violently,  hastened  away. 

Now  for  the  first  time  I  saw  tears  in  the  eyes  of  Fanchon  and 
her  mother. 

We  entered  our  carriage  and  drove  off*. 

We  said  little  for  the  first  hour  or  two.  Herr  Von  Ormy  sate 
gloomy  in  one  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  I  in  the  other.  This 


THE    INN    AT    CKANSAC.  107 

suited  me  well.  I  had  to  do  violence  to  myself  in  his  presence, 
for  I  could  have  wept  like  a  child.  Fanchon,  with  her  tearful 
eyes,  flitted  ever  before  me. 

The  next  day  I  was  somewhat  more  composed.  We  passed 
through  Toulouse  and  the  badly  built  Carcassonne.  My  com- 
panion, besides  not  being  talkative,  opened  his  mouth  only  when 
he  found  something  to  blame.  "  People  exist  only  to  plague  one 
another  with  their  folly  and  crimes,"  said  he.  "  In  palaces  and 
hovels,  it's  all  the  same.  I  am  a  torment  to  others,  I  suppose  ; 
but  I  am  so,  because  they  are  a  torment  to  me." 

"  Yet  you  did  not  seem  to  be  a  torment  to  the  fair  Fanchon," 
replied  I,  "  or  were  you  cruel  enough  to  be  unjust  to  the  most 
harmless  creature  under  heaven  ?" 

"  I  deny  it  not,"  he  returned.  "  Children  are  upon  earth,  like 
angels  of  light  in  hell.  And  Fanchon  is  a  true  child.  I  avoided 
the  maiden,  because  I  had  never  in  my  life  seen  a  lovelier.  I 
would  have  remained  longer  in  Cransac,  for  the  retired  charac- 
ter of  the  place  pleased  me,  as  well  as  the  good  nature  of  the 
people,  who  at  least  did  not  understand  how  to  hide  their  weak- 
ness or  their  knavery ;  but  I  did  not  remain  because  Fanchon 
was  there." 

"  What  a  contradiction  !"  cried  I. 

"  None  at  all,"  answered  he ;  "  the  maiden  would  perhaps 
have  succeeded  in  robbing  me  of  all  the  fruits  of  my  hardly- 
earned  knowledge  of  the  world  and  of  myself.  She  would  have 
made  a  fool  of  me  or  doubled  my  wretchedness." 

With  these  words  he  broke  off.  I  endeavoured  in  vain  to  lead 
him  into  further  conversation  about  the  Albret  family,  with 
whom  he  had  been  living  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  year.  He  either 
did  not  speak  or  answered  only  with  a  nod  of  the  head  or  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

As  he  had  already  said  at  Cransac,  it  was  his  intention  to  go 
with  me  to  Perpignan  and  there  leave  me.  His  business  I  knew 
not.  At  the  second  stage  beyond  Carcassonne  he  found  hi  the 
inn  a  map  hanging  on  the  wall.  He  stood  before  it  for  some 
time,  rubbed  his  forehead,  then  wrote  something  in  his  pocket- 


108  THE    GIFT. 

book  and  came  to  me  and  said :  "  I  had  best  go  to  Marseilles, 
and  thence  to  Italy." 

Notwithstanding,  he  took  his  seat  again  in  the  carriage.  We 
rode  until  it  was  quite  dark.  The  moon  shone  brightly.  It  was 
impressive  almost  to  solemnity,  the  ride  along  the  mountains, 
the  sharp  outlines  of  whose  cliffs  were  painted  on  the  clear  sky. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Von  Ormy,  who  had  appeared  to  be  asleep, 
turned  and  looked  out  to  consider  the  country. 

"  What  ruin  is  that  there  on  the  mountain  ?"  cried  he  to  the 
postilion. 

"  Castle  Loubre  !"  answered  the  man. 

"  Right !"  said  Mr.  Von  Ormy.  "  Then  that  is  the  road  up 
there  from  Siegean  ?" 

"  Of  course !"  replied  the  driver.  "  It  is  not  four  weeks  ago 
that  on  that  road,  on  a  moonlight  night  as  bright  as  this,  a  coach 
with  travellers  was  attacked  by  robbers.  My  brother-in-law, 
Matthew,  who  drove  them,  was  murdered." 

"  And  we  are  not  far  from  Belloc  ?"  added  Von  Ormy. 

"  A  short  half  league,"  replied  the  postilion. 

Von  Ormy  threw  himself  back  again  into  the  corner  of  the 
carriage,  and  uttered  not  another  word. 

I  looked  with  interest  upon  the  dusky  giant  ruins  of  the  old 
castle.  Touched  by  the  moonlight,  they  presented  in  the  wild 
still  solitude  an  appearance  almost  appalling.  I  can  never  look 
upon  such  remains  without  melancholy,  for  the  fortunes,  good  and 
ill,  which  have  had  their  theatre  there,  the  beings  that  have 
laughed  and  wept,  that  have  been  born  and  that  have  died  there, 
from  the  first  founder  of  the  family  to  his  latest  descendant,  rise 
involuntarily  before  me ;  and  the  great  picture  of  the  past  blends 
itself  with  the  present  spectacle  of  ruin  and  desolation. 

"  The  castle,"  said  I  to  the  postilion,  "  does  not  seem  to  have 
been  long  in  this  ruined  condition." 

"  It  may  be  eight  or  ten  years  since,  for  aught  I  know,"  he 
replied,  "  that  it  was  burnt  down,  with  every  thing  in  it." 

"  Horrible !"  I  exclaimed ;  "  and  how  did  so  great  a  calamity 
occur  ?" 


THE    INN    AT   CRANSAC.  109 

"  How  ?"  answered  he ;  "  why,  the  people  did  it  in  the  out- 
break of  the  Revolution.  The  nobility  were  hated  for  their 
tyranny,  and  their  houses  were  every  where  stormed  and  burnt. 
That  castle  then  belonged  to  a  rich  countess,  who  perished  in 
the  fire." 

"It  is  false !"  suddenly  exclaimed  Mr.  Von  Ormy  at  my  side. 

"  You  may  say  so,  sir,"  rejoined  the  postilion,  "  but  I  have 
heard  the  whole  story  from  trustworthy  people.  And  there  was 
a  young  man  who  was  born  in  the  castle,  and  whom  the  old 
countess  did  not  wish  to  acknowledge  as  her  son — he  perished 
too.  Very  good  people  who  knew  all  about  it  have  told  me  so." 

"  They  lied  !"  cried  Mr.  Von  Ormy. 

"  I  don't  care,  not  I !  if  you  won't  believe  me,  or  if  you  know 
better,  what  do  you  ask  me  for  ?"  murmured  the  postilion,  and 
turning  to  his  horses,  fell  to  cracking  his  whip. 

"  Then  you  are  acquainted  with  this  matter  ?"  said  I  to  Von 
Ormy. 

"  Tolerably  well,"  he  replied,  "  for  I  happen  to  be  the  young 
man  who  ought  to  have  been  burned  there,  if  the  fellow's  story 
were  true." 

"  How !  You  the  son  and  descendant  of  the  old  occupants  of 
that  castle !"  exclaimed  I  in  amazement. 

"  I  am  nobody's  son !"  murmured  he. 

"  But  you  said  just  now  that  you  were — " 

"  True,"  he  replied,  "  but  there  is  no  contradiction." 

He  observed  my  curiosity  to  be  excited,  and  proceeded,  much 
to  my  satisfaction,  without  waiting  to  be  asked,  to  relate  the 
following  story. 

Until  my  fifteenth  year,  I  was  under  the  care  of  the  pastor  of 
that  village,  whose  lights  we  saw  about  half  an  hour  ago,  glim- 
mering through  the  darkness,  on  our  right.  I  had  supposed 
that  he  was  my  relation  or  indeed  my  father,  which  he  could 
not  have  been  on  account  of  his  priestly  office.  I  was  mistaken. 
I  was  then  informed  that  I  was  the  child  of  other  people,  that  I 
had  been  brought  to  the  pastor  when  I  was  four  years  old,  that 

10* 


110  THE    GIFT. 

he  had  regularly  received  a  liberal  compensation  for  the  care  he 
took  of  me,  and  that  he  had  engaged  to  bring  me  up  in  the  best 
manner  possible. 

When  I  inquired  of  him  about  my  parents,  he  was  wont  to 
answer:  "  Child,  you  ask  too  much.  Your  parents  have  long 
been  dead.  I  never  knew  them.  You  were  given  up  to  me.  I 
am  paid  liberally  for  your  expenses.  Hence  I  suppose  that  you 
have  property.  But  how  that  may  be,  you  will  learn  when  you 
are  older." 

I  was  warmly  attached  to  the  worthy  man.  My  young  heart 
felt  the  need  of  a  heart  to  which  it  might  cling.  I  was  afflicted 
at  the  thought  that  I  had  no  parents,  not  a  soul  to  whom  I 
belonged.  I  envied  the  poorest  children  of  the  village  the  kisses 
and  embraces  of  their  mothers. 

The  pious  old  man  gave  me  an  excellent  education  in  his  way. 
He  instructed  me  in  the  languages  and  sciences.  When  I  was 
fifteen,  he  carried  me  to  Montpellier,  and  a  year  after  to  Tou- 
louse, to  complete  my  education.  I  never  saw  him  again.  He 
died.  Yet  I  regularly  drew  a  certain  sum  of  money  every 
quarter,  from  a  banker  to  whom  my  old  friend  had  directed  me. 
I  long  supposed  that  it  came  from  him.  But  the  banker  in- 
formed me  that  the  money  came  at  one  time  from  one  large 
Paris  house,  and  then  from  another. 

I  was  happy.  Who  is  not  at  that  age  1  My  passions  were 
waking  into  life.  I  had  a  vivid  imagination.  I  was  a  poet. 
The  world  shone  around  me  rose-coloured.  I  was  intoxicated 
with  brilliant  illusions.  I  did  not  know  human  nature.  I  loved 
every  body  with  the  devotion  of  my  whole  heart.  I  had  more 
money  than  I  needed.  I  delighted  in  life  and  in  assisting  the 
destitute.  I  had  a  friend  upon  whom  I  hung  with  my  whole 
soul,  and  what  was  still  more,  I  had  the  happiness  of  loving  and 
being  beloved.  All  the  joys  of  life  were  spread  out  before  me. 
Truly,  I  appear  to  myself  now  to  have  been  a  great  fool. 

A  few  weeks  dissipated  my  heaven,  and  brought  me  to  my 
senses.  I  had  entered  my  nineteenth  year.  My  beloved,  whom 
I — no,  I  did  not  love,  I  adored  her — was  of  respectable  paren- 


THE    INN    AT    CHANSAC.  Ill 

tage,  but  lived  with  her  mother,  a  major's  widow,  in  straitened 
circumstances.  I  determined  to  establish  myself,  and  then  to 
ask  her  hand,  and  thus  complete  my  felicity.  She  and  her 
mother  lived,  from  the  time  I  made  her  acquaintance,  very  com- 
fortably, for,  without  her  knowledge,  I  devoted  to  her  the  larger 
part  of  my  income.  In  so  doing,  I  availed  myself  of  the  ser- 
vices of  my  friend.  It  was  his  part  to  provide  methods  of  con- 
tributing to  the  support  of  herself  and  her  mother,  without  per- 
mitting my  name  to  be  known  in  the  matter.  For  I  did  not 
seek  gratitude,  but  love.  I  feared  that  I  should  injure  the  deli- 
cate relation  in  which  we  stood  to  one  another,  if  I  appeared  to 
her  in  the  character  of  a  benefactor. 

In  the  meanwhile  I  dreamed  not  that  mother  and  daughter 
and  bosom  friend  had  conspired  to  use  my  money  for  themselves 
alone,  that  he  had  availed  himself  of  her  poverty  and  my  money 
to  gain  the  affections  of  the  girl,  that,  while  I  in  all  humility 
revered  her  innocence  and  saintliness,  she  deceived  me,  and  that 
I,  simple  fool,  was  destined  to  be  her  husband  in  case  of  neces- 
sity, should  the  consequences  of  her  shameful  intimacy  with  my 
friend  threaten  her  with  open  dishonour.  All  this  I  discovered 
very  unexpectedly.  I  went  one  morning  to  carry  a  birthday 
present  to  my  beloved.  I  found  her  in  the  arms  of  my  friend. 
I  almost  lost  my  senses.  He  stood  before  me  speechless  with 
shame.  I  fled  with  horror  from  the  place.  I  was  overwhelmed 
with  despair.  I  fell  into  a  violent  fever.  Upon  my  recovery,  I 
learnt  from  others  the  history  of  my  betrayal.  The  traitor  and 
his  victim  tried  to  woo  me  back.  I  shrunk  from  them  with 
detestation.  From  that  day  the  Judas  became  my  deadly  enemy. 
He  poured  his  scorn  upon  me  in  public.  We  fought ;  I  wounded 
him  in  the  arm.  While  his  blood  was  flowing,  he  swore  death 
and  destruction  against  me. 

About  that  time,  I  received  a  visit  which  caused  me  to  quit 
Toulouse.  A  traveller  came  to  me  one  day.  After  I  had  satis- 
fied him  that  I  really  was  the  person  he  sought — and  to  that  end 
I  was  compelled  to  go  in  person  to  the  banker,  from  whom  I  had 


112  THE    GIFT. 

been  accustomed  to  receive  my  funds,  and  who  could  testify  to 
my  identity, — the  stranger  gave  me  his  confidence. 

"  Mr.  Von  Ormy,"  said  he,  "  I  am  commissioned  to  deliver  to 
you  this  sealed  packet.  You  will  be  so  good  as  to  give  me  a 
receipt  for  it."  I  took  the  packet,  and  gave  him  the  acknow- 
ledgment he  desired.  He  then  said,  "  Mr.  Von  Ormy,  you  will 
do  well  to  betake  yourself  immediately  to  the  Countess  Von 
Loubre,  and  demand  that  your  rights  as  her  son  be  acknow- 
ledged. The  Countess  is  your  mother.  The  proofs  of  it,  con- 
sisting in  part  of  letters  written  by  your  father  recently  deceased 
in  Scotland,  are  in  that  packet.  The  matter  admits  of  no  ques- 
tion. The  remittances  which  you  have  hitherto  received  now 
cease.  It  is  for  your  mother  to  provide  for  you  in  future." 
Such  was  the  purport  of  his  communication. 

"  Where  is  my  mother  ?  Where  shall  I  find  my  mother  ?" 
cried  I,  trembling  with  surprise  and  delight.  God  only  knows 
how  it  was  with  me.  The  stranger  informed  me  that  my  mother 
had  resided  eighteen  years  past  in  Paris,  and  that  now  for  the 
first  time  after  a  long  absence,  she  had  gone  to  the  old  hereditary 
castle  in  Languedoc,  and  would  remain  there  only  a  few  months. 

In  vain  did  I  beset  the  traveller  with  questions  about  my 
father,  my  mother,  and  their  connexions.  He  could  tell  me 
nothing.  He  had  known  neither  of  my  parents  personally. 
What  he  had  told  me,  he  had  been  commissioned  to  tell  me, 
probably  by  the  family  of  my  deceased  father.  The  messenger 
was  not  even  a  Frenchman.  He  was  English.  He  had  fulfilled 
his  errand,  and  he  left  me. 

The  packet  also,  which  I  opened  with  trembling  hands,  gave 
me  no  information  of  the  connexions  of  my  parents,  or  of  the 
reason  why  they  had  forborne  to  acknowledge  me.  I  found  in 
the  packet  written  declarations  under  my  father's  hand,  letters 
concerning  me  in  the  hand  of  the  Countess,  a  baptismal  certifi- 
cate, and  the  testimony  of  my  nurse  and  of  a  farmer's  family  to 
me  unknown,  who  had  probably  had  charge  of  me  before  I  was 
delivered  into  the  care  of  my  instructer.  I  found  writings  also 


THE    INN    AT    CRANSAC.  113 

in  the  hand  of  the  pastor,  and  other  papers  which  proved,  if  not 
the  legitimacy,  yet  the  legality  of  my  birth. 

0  how  gladly  did  I  leave  the  hated  Toulouse !     I  had  lost  a 
friend,  and  a  lover,  but  had  found  a  mother.    I  remembered  how 
in  my  boyhood  I  had  heard  of  the  Countess  at  the  castle,  and 
how  I  was  told  that  she  was  beautiful  and  unfortunate.     I  could 
now  surmise  that  I  had  been  either  the  cause  or  the  consequence 
of  her  misfortunes. 

1  arrived,   and  went  tremblingly  to  the  castle.     I  desired  to 
be  announced  to  the  Countess.     On  the  road  I  had  practised  all 
that  I  would  do  and  say  before  I  threw  myself  upon  the  breast 
of  my  mother  as  a  new-found  son.     I  trembled,  lest  her  heart 
should    break   with   the   suddenness   of   the   surprise   and   the 
pleasure. 

I  was  conducted  into  a  parlour.  The  Countess  came,  a  noble 
person  who  inspired  me  with  awe,  and  still  retained  so  much  of 
the  beauty  of  her  youth,  that  I  could  hardly  believe  she  was  my 
mother.  She  was  not  yet  nine-and-thirty  years.  She  looked 
scarcely  thirty. 

I  approached  her.  My  heart  was  rent  in  twain.  I  sought  to 
look  at  her,  but  my  eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears.  I  sought  to 
speak,  but  my  voice  failed  me.  I  stammered  out  my  name.  I 
told  whence  I  came.  I  asked  whether  she  did  not  mourn  a  lost 
son.  I  fell  upon  my  knee  at  her  feet,  and  murmured  the  name 
of  mother. 

She  seemed  startled,  and  said,  "  Young  man,  compose  your- 
self. What  do  you  desire  1  Whom  do  you  want  ?  Why  do 
you  weep?" 

I  repeated  to  her  on  my  knees  my  history,  and  named  her 
mother. 

"  Young  man,"  said  she  with  composure,  "  you  mistake.  I 
am  indeed  the  Countess  whom  you  seek ;  but  I  have  never  been 
married.  I  have  never  had  any  son,  of  course  I  have  never  lost 
one.  Without  doubt  some  one  has  been  playing  unworthily  on 
your  credulity,  or  you  are  made  a  tool  to  injure  me.  Rise  up." 

I  stood  up,  but  wholly  bewildered  by  her  words.     I   could 


114  THE    GIFT. 

hardly  recover  myself.  I  looked  at  her  earnestly  and  with 
emotion,  but  in  her  countenance,  nothing  of  the  tender  disquiet 
of  a  mother's  heart  was  betrayed,  of  a  mother  eager  to  fold  in 
her- arms  a  long-lost  son,  but  there  was  the  disquiet  of  despair 
and  of  a  pride  writhing  under  a  deadly  wound.  She  treated  me 
as  one  who  had  been  sported  with,  and  who  was  really  perhaps 
half  a  fool.  That  wounded  me.  Yet  I  thought  that  I  was 
myself  probably  to  blame  for  the  tone  she  had  assumed ;  I  had 
been  hasty  and  confused.  I  therefore  stated  my  case  to  her 
more  calmly.  I  showed  her  among  my  papers,  her  own  letters, 
various  certificates,  and  her  own  written  declaration  that  when 
I  became  of  age  she  would  provide  for  me,  and  insure  me 
during  her  life  a  good  portion  of  her  property,  that  my  inheri- 
tance might  not  be  curtailed  by  her  family.  I  showed  her  a  paper 
in  her  own  handwriting,  in  which  she  had  formally  made  over,  an 
annuity  of  50,000  livres  to  me  and  for  my  use,  about  ten  years 
before,  at  the  request  of  my  father.  Yet  I  was  not  mentioned  in 
this  paper  as  her  son :  that  appeared  only  from  her  letters  and 
some  other  accompanying  vouchers.  Finally,  I  desired  to  know 
her  will. 

She  was  in  a  state  of  indescribable  distress.  "  Young  man," 
said  she  at  last,  "  I  have  never  been  married.  You  will  see  that 
I  cannot  recognise  you  as  my  son,  cannot  expose  myself  to 
public  scorn  and  shame.  You  are  in  possession  of  papers  which 
— you  understand.  I  must  be  better  convinced  of  the  character 
of  these  papers,  and  of  the  identity  of  your  person.  Leave  your 
papers  with  me  for  a  short  time.  I  will  in  the  meantime  give 
you  lodging  in  my  castle." 

Thus  she  spake.  I  now  perceived  that  she  could  not  disown 
me,  and  yet  was  resolved  to  look  upon  me  as  the  disgrace  of  her 
life,  and  that  she  aimed  to  get  in  her  power  the  papers  which 
were  the  only  legal  proofs  of  my  birth.  I  thrust  the  papers  in 
my  pocket,  expressed  my  astonishment  that  no  feeling  spoke  for 
me  in  her  heart,  and  declared  that  I  would  give  up  the  papers 
only  before  a  court  of  justice ;  that  I  gave  her  a  week  to  decide ; 
that  I  would  await  her  decision  at  the  neighbouring  town  of  Sie- 


THE    INN    AT    CRANSAC.  115 

gean ;  and  then  would  urge  my  claims  legally,  if  she  persisted 
in  sacrificing  the  feelings  of  a  mother  to  her  family  pride. 

She  stood  stupified.  I  left  her  with  my  heart  in  a  flame.  As 
I  went  down  the  castle  stairs,  I  heard  her  shrieking  out  various 
names,  and  calling  to  her  people :  "  Seize  that  man !  don't  let 
him  leave  the  castle  !  after  him !  quick  !"  Some  of  the  women 
looked  at  me  with  affright,  and  called  to  the  porter  to  bar  the 
door,  but  I  threw  the  old  fellow  to  the  ground,  mounted  my 
horse  and  rode  off. 

At  a  miserable  inn  at  Siegean,  I  resolved  to  wait  the  appointed 
time.  The  third  night  I  was  awakened  by  a  strange  noise.  I 
listened.  It  was  evident  that  there  were  persons  in  the  room, 
probably  thieves.  A  glimmer  of  light  passed  over  the  counter- 
pane. It  came  from  a  dark  lantern.  I  leaped  out  of  bed,  seized 
a  small  table  and  brandished  it  furiously  around  me  in  all  direc- 
tions. The  lantern,  with  its  bearer,  went  to  the  floor.  A  stifled 
cry  arose.  I  still  struck  about,  until  I  became  out  of  breath,  and 
perceived  that  I  was  alone.  I  took  up  the  lantern,  and  lighted 
my  candle.  In  the  inn  all  was  still.  On  the  floor  lay  an 
unknown  man.  I  supposed  him  dead.  I  determined  to  raise 
an  alarm.  I  dressed  myself  in  all  haste.  While  thus  engaged 
I  saw  the  man  stir.  He  had  only  been  stunned  by  a  heavy 
blow.  I  fell  upon  him  and  searched  him.  He  had  a  loaded 
pistol  and  a  long  knife.  I  bound  him  hand  and  foot  with  the 
straps  of  my  trunk,  that  he  might  not  escape.  He  came  wholly 
to  himself,  and  began  to  whimper  when  he  saw  his  situation. 
With  the  knife  at  his  breast  I  forced  him  to  confess  what  he  was 
after.  Not  my  money,  nor  my  life,  but  my  papers,  he  had 
sought  to  obtain  for  the  Countess.  She  had  hoped  to  surprise 
and  terrify  me  in  my  sleep. 

To  spare  the  Countess,  I  made  no  noise.  The  fellow  re- 
mained my  prisoner  and  hostage.  I  despatched  a  note  to  the 
Countess,  informing  her  that  she  must  personally  appear  within 
four-and-twenty  hours  in  Siegean  and  release  my  prisoner,  by 
coming  to  terms  with  me.  She  did  not  come,  but  sent  a  person 
with  full  powers.  The  terms  were  settled.  Before  a  notary 


116  THE    GIFT. 

and  witnesses  I  received  in  due  form  from  her  a  paper  by  which 
I  was  put  in  possession  of  an  annuity  of  15,000  livres.  But  all 
my  papers  I  was  to  put  sealed  into  the  hands  of  the  Countess. 

So  we  separated.  Now  was  I  more  lonely  than  ever  in  the 
world.  My  only  friend  had  deceived  me.  My  love  had  proved 
false.  My  mother  had  despised  and  disowned  me.  This  all 
happened  early  in  the  Revolution.  I  have  since  been  round 
much  in  the  world,  and  found  iniquity  every  where.  In  Paris  I 
barely  escaped  death.  There  was  the  Judas,  my  former  friend 
of  Toulouse,  a  furious  Jacobin,  and  an  accuser  of  the  aristocracy. 
I  took  service  in  the  republican  ranks,  and  took  part  in  some 
engagements.  In  a  battle  with  our  foes,  I  saw  that  Judas  among 
them.  He  recognised  me.  "Have  I  found  thee  at  last?"  he 
exclaimed,  and  rushed  upon  me.  As  we  fought  together,  a 
soldier  of  my  company  who  had  come  to  my  aid,  shot  him 
through  the  heart.  There,  you  have  my  history. 

While  my  companion  was  relating  to  me  his  history,  we 
arrived  at  the  posthouse  of  a  small  town.  We  determined,  after 
a  few  hours'  rest,  to  continue  our  journey.  I  had  become  deeply 
interested  in  my  unhappy  companion. 

The  next  morning  as  we  sate  at  breakfast,  he  suddenly  broke 
out :  "  I  have  resolved ; — I  shall  go  to  Marseilles,  and  then  to 
Italy.  I  must  leave  you." 

I  expressed  my  sorrow  at  the  loss  of  his  company,  but  did  not 
urge  him  to  accompany  me.  "  Mr.  Von  Ormy,"  said  I,  "  through 
your  friendly  confidence  you  have  awakened  in  me  the  deepest 
sympathy.  I  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  show  you  how  highly 
I  esteem  you.  But  alas !  I  have  nothing  to  give  you  but  good 
advice." 

"  And  what  is  that?"  said  he,  gloomily. 

"  You  are  unhappy,  very  unhappy,  because  with  all  your 
excellent  qualities  you  have  become  very  unjust  through  the 
unworthiness  of  persons  who  deceived  you,  and  who  were 
thrown  by  chance  near  you  in  your  youth.  But  it  is  a  common 
case  ,•  whoever  begins  with  trusting  too  eagerly  and  rashly,  ends 


THE    INN    AT    CRANSAC.  117 

with  believing  and  trusting  altogether  too  little.  On  account  of 
some  worthless  persons,  one  must  not  despise  the  whole  world. 
How  many  a  noble  heart  that  would  gladly  have  opened  itself  to 
you,  have  you  probably  repulsed !  Do  not  go  to  Marseilles,  or 
to  Italy.  You  will  not  recover  there.  Go  to  Cransac.  You 
will  find  your  cure  in  the  lovely  circle  of  the  Albret  family. 
There  they  know  you.  There  they  have  patience  with  your 
weaknesses,  and  honour  for  your  virtues.  And  you  know  that 
family.  Tell  me,  which  member  of  it  is  of  a  worse  temper 
than  your  own  ?  And  if  the  good  people  at  Cransac  resemble 
yourself,  why  do  you  struggle  against  your  conviction,  to  find 
them  lovely  ?" 

All  this  I  said  from  my  heart.  He  took  no  offence  at  my 
freedom.  But  murmuring  a  word  or  two,  he  went  out  to  order 
horses.  He  accompanied  me  to  my  carriage.  We  embraced 
like  old  friends.  He  seemed  to  be  much  moved.  I  pressed  him 
once  more  to  my  breast  and  whispered  to  him  :  "  In  Cransac  is 
your  physician."  So  we  parted. 

Arrived  at  Perpignan,  I  learned  from  the  General  that  my 
regiment  had  already  six  days  before  set  out  for  Catalonia.  At 
the  same  time  he  very  agreeably  surprised  me  with  a  brevet. 
The  Emperor  had  made  me  a  major.  I  hastened  to  my  regiment, 
and  entered  immediately  into  active  service. 

We  fought  with  the  Spaniards  a  couple  of  years  with  various 
fortune.  I  will  not  here  enter  into  any  of  the  particulars  of  our 
engagements.  They  are  known,  and  the  deeds  of  individuals 
disappear  in  the  mighty  mass  of  events. 

We  had  a  hard  service,  almost  daily  marches  and  skirmishes. 
Soil  and  climate  were  against  us.  My  pleasantest  moments 
were  when  I  could  be  by  myself  and  dream.  And  of  what  did 
I  dream  ?  Of  Cransac  and  Fanchon.  Her  image  was  so  con- 
tinually before  me  that  I  amused  myself  with  cutting  out  her 
profile  in  paper,  and  I  always  succeeded  in  hitting  it. 

For  the  rest,  I  lived  in  Spain  as  in  garrison,  very  retired.  My 
comrades  called  me  the  misanthrope.  Indeed  1  almost  fell  into 
the  state  from  which  I  would  so  gladly  have  delivered  Herr  Von 

11 


118  THE    GIFT. 

Ormy.  But  I  reached  the  same  condition  by  a  very  opposite 
way.  I  had  become  indifferent  to  society — I  avoided  it,  as  I 
could,  not  because  men  had  deceived  me,  but  because  I  never 
hoped  to  find  people  so  amiable  as  the  Cransac  family.  Who- 
ever has  become  possessed  of  the  rare,  cares  not  for  the  common. 
The  death  of  my  father,  who  left  me  a  respectable  estate,  and 
the  hopelessness  of  retiring  from  the  service,  aggravated  my 
peculiar  mood  of  mind. 

In  this  uncomfortable  state  I  continued  still  for  two  years. 
This  period  was  rich  in  events  and  deeds,  which  deserve  rather 
to  be  forgotten  than  related.  A  bullet  under  the  walls  of  Tarra- 
gona put  an  end  to  my  military  career.  Shortly  before  I  had 
received  the  riband  of  the  Legion  of  Honour  and  the  rank  of 
lieutenant-colonel.  The  walls  of  Tarragona  were  stormed.  I 
headed  my  battalion,  and  a  musket-ball  which  struck  my  foot 
threw  me  to  the  ground.  I  was  borne  out  of  the  mele.  My 
soldiers  loved  me.  I  lost  much  blood  and  for  a  time  all  con- 
sciousness. I  was  carried  to  Barcelona.  It  was  a  question  for 
a  while  whether  my  foot  should  not  be  amputated.  To  me  it 
was  a  matter  of  indifference.  It  would  not  have  disturbed  me 
had  I  been  told  that  I  was  to  die.  The  thought  that  I  should 
be  compelled  all  my  life  to  hobble  about  on  crutches  had 
nothing  very  pleasing  in  it. 

My  case  took  a  turn.  A  young  surgeon  took  a  great  interest 
in  me,  and  boldly  withstood  his  superiors,  who  decided  that  my 
foot  ought  to  be  cut  off.  The  young  man  knew  more  than  his 
elders,  which  is  not  uncommon.  The  doctors  quarrelled  long. 
The  chief  physician  insisted  that  I  must  lose  my  foot  or  my  life. 
It  was  inevitable.  The  young  surgeon  maintained  that  both 
could  be  saved,  only  the  wounded  limb  would  be  stiff,  and  I 
should  be  rendered  unfit  for  military  service.  They  left  the 
matter  at  last  to  me.  I  resolved  to  put  myself  into  the  hands 
of  the  young  man.  And  I  resolved  wisely.  I  preserved  both 
foot  and  life. 

The  cure  was  tedious.  I  obtained  an  honourable  dismission, 
with  a  year's  pay.  They  dragged  me  from  Barcelona  to  the 


THE    INN    AT    CKANSAC.  119 

baths,  from  the  baths  to  Figueras  and  Perpignan.  By  help  of 
a  cane  I  could  again  walk  about  without  pain  or  limping.  My 
foot  was  only  very  weak.  But  even  this  weakness  soon  va- 
nished, leaving  only  a  slight  stiffness. 

I  was  advised  to  continue  the  use  of  the  mineral  baths.  I 
determined  to  go  home  and  take  possession  of  my  paternal 
estate.  But  as  my  property,  under  the  charge  of  a  relative, 
was  well  taken  care  of,  I  thought,  not  without  a  beating  of  the 
heart,  of  the  baths  at  Cransac.  Ah !  I  had  thought  of  them 
only  too  often !  Yet  I  hesitated  not  a  little  about  going  there. 
Fanchon  was  without  doubt  married  by  this  time.  In  four  or 
five  years  much  must  have  changed  in  the  family  of  Albret. 
And  even  if  Fanchon  were  still  free,  what  had  I  to  expect  1  I 
had  loved  her,  but  she  had  never  loved  me.  She  might  not  be 
alive.  My  heart  fluttered  at  the  thought.  Better  for  me,  that  I 
remain  in  my  ignorance.  I  was  now  as  happy  and  harmless  as 
any  one  could  well  be  with  a  stiff  foot. 

No  passion  disturbed  me.  The  storm  of  the  first  love  had 
passed  by.  I  was  independent,  and  the  world  was  open  be- 
fore me. 

I  fought  long  with  myself,  and  at  last  determined  to  go  whither 
my  understanding  forbade  and  my  heart  drew  me — to  Cransac. 

In  a  comfortable  carriage,  which  I  fortunately  purchased  at 
Perpignan,  I  set  out,  accompanied  by  my  trusty  Thomas. 

When,  after  some  days,  I  saw  lying  before  me  in  the  distance 
the  little  spot  which  had  so  often  occupied  my  thoughts,  a  strange 
anxiety  seized  me.  I  wished  that  I  was  going  elsewhere,  and 
almost  gave  command  to  the  postilion  to  turn  about.  I  had  a 
foreboding  that  it  was  not  wise  in  me  to  go  to  Cransac — that 
misfortune  awaited  me  there.  I  sought  in  vain  to  subdue  this 
superstitious  fear.  I  rode  into  the  village  and  stopped  with  a 
beating  heart  before  the  only  too  well-known  inn. 

It  was  a  lovely  Sunday  morning.  The  whole  family  were  at 

church,  except .  She  came  towards  me  as  I  entered  the 

house.  Whose  heart  could  help  beating  1  It  was  Fanchon.  It 
was  not  Fanchon,  but  Fanchon,  transfigured,  deified.  I  had 


120  THE    GIFT. 

always  thought  of  her  as  the  lovely  girl  of  scarce  sixteen ; — 
but  what  a  change  had  four  years  made !  It  was  the  maiden,  in 
the  full  bloom  of  beauty,  of  tenderness,  of  dignity — I  cannot 
describe  the  impression  which  the  vision  made  on  me.  With  a 
silent  bow  I  continued  standing  speechless  before  her.  She  wel- 
comed me  in  her  friendly  way,  with  that  smile  of  hers  so  pecu- 
liarly bewitching. 

"  Good  heavens  !  how  beautiful  you  have  grown !"  said  I  at 
last ;  "  but  you  do  not  recognise  me." 

She  did  not  indeed  recognise  me  so  speedily  as  I  recognised 
her.  Her  blush,  the  joyful  sparkling  of  her  eyes  betrayed  her 
recognition  of  me.  "  Do  you  hold  us  then  for  folks  of  so  short 
a  memory  ?"  said  she ;  "  it  was  only  yesterday  evening  that  we 
were  talking  of  you.  We  thought  you  must  be  lost  and  dead,  at 
least  for  us.  What  miracle  brings  you  hither  ?" 

"  How  can  you  ask  1"  said  I,  and  pressed  her  hand  to  my 
lips.  "  What  miracle  could  it  be,  but  the  most  beautiful  of  all 
miracles  under  heaven,  but  yourself?  You  might,  had  I  fallen  in 
Spain,  have  called  my  spirit  back  again  to  the  world." 

"  Could  I  have  had  the  power  to  do  that,"  said  she  with  a 
roguish  smile,  "  I  should  have  taken  good  care  not  to  call  you 
out  of  the  fires  of  purgatory,  until  they  had  purified  you  of  all 
delight  in  flattery,  and  you  had  learned  to  speak  the  truth." 

"  Ah,"  cried  I,  as  I  entered  the  parlour,  where  every  thing 
presented  itself  in  its  old  familiar  aspect,  "  let  me  consider  Spain 
as  purgatory,  and  let  me  here  find  the  heaven  which  I  have 
found  nowhere  else  since  I  left  you." 

"  You  belong  then  to  the  fallen  angels,  who  lost  heaven 
through  ambition  ?"  she  replied.  "  Who  will  answer  for  you 
that  you  will  not  rebel  and  want  to  turn  this  dull  heaven  into  a 
Spanish  hell  ?"  ' 

"  For  that  I  can  give  no  other  security  than  that  of  the  fair 
queen  of  heaven  herself.  If  she  will  only  look  graciously  upon 
me,  I  will  be  her  most  faithful  subject." 

She  shook  her  finger  at  me,  and  said,  "  You  have  indeed  still 
much  of  the  fallen  angel  in  you,  and  return  more  wicked  than 
you  left  us." 


THE    INN    AT    CRANSAC.  121 

"Then  reform  me  by  your  grace.  My  return  betrays  my 
aspirations  after  something  better.  If  you  do  not  drive  me  from 
this  heaven,  I  will  never  leave  it  again.  Will  you  expel  me  ?" 

She  blushed,  and  could  not  answer. 

But  immediately  she  resumed  her  lively  humour,  and  replied, 
"  Accordingly  as  you  behave.  We  will  see.  But  I  am  afraid 
you  have  not  learnt  much  good  among  the  fair  Spaniards." 

As  we  were  thus  talking,  the  door  opened.  Herr  Albret,  with 
his  wife,  and  some  of  his  little  daughters,  all  little  Amorettes, 
entered  the  room.  Mr.  Albret  and  his  wife  embraced  me,  and  I 
them,  with  cordiality  and  with  emotion.  And  then  I  had  to  tell 
them  how  I  had  come,  and  how  it  had  gone  with  me  since  we 
parted.  They  all  stood  around  me  with  countenances  sparkling 
with  joy.  I  saw  how  welcome  I  was  to  the  good  people.  The 
little  ones,  timidly  at  first,  came  nearer  to  me ;  but  I  looked  in 
vain  for  the  lovely  Annette  among  them.  I  dared  not  ask  after 
her.  I  feared  some  painful  answer.  I  feared  lest  the  tender 
angel,  too  beautiful,  too  good  for  this  world,  had  flown  to 
another.  I  looked  round  often  still. 

"  You  seek,  Colonel—"  said  Mr.  Albret. 

"  I  do  not  see — "  said  I,  and  paused. 

"  You  are  right !"  cried  Mrs.  Albret.  "  Run,  Juliette,  and  tell 
Fanchon  she  must  come  immediately,  that  the  friend  is  with  us 
whom  we  were  speaking  of  yesterday."  Juliette  hopped  away. 
"  How  delighted  Fanchon  will  be !"  added  Mrs.  Albret. 

I  heard  these  words  with  inexpressible  embarrassment.  Then 
it  must  have  been  Annette,  whom  I  had  mistaken  for  Fanchon. 
But  I  should  have  remembered  that  Annette  at  the  end  of  four 
years  was  no  longer  fourteen,  but  eighteen.  I  know  not  how  I 
bore  the  surprise.  But  the  family  appeared  to  remark  it.  I 
cast  my  eyes  sideways  at  her  whom  I  had  mistaken  for  Fan- 
chon. It  was  indeed  Annette  herself;  but  she  was  so  serious, 
and  had  become  so  pale,  that  I  was  alarmed. 

"  Are  you  not  well  ?"  said  I,  and  approached  her.  She  passed 
her  hand  over  her  face  and  forced  a  smile.  The  mother's  atten- 
tion was  awakened,  and  she  insisted  that  her  daughter  should  go 

11* 


122  THE    GIFT. 

out  into  the  air.  "  You  have  startled  the  maiden,"  said  Mr. 
Albret,  "  by  the  suddenness  of  your  appearance.  Perhaps  it 
will  be  the  same  with  Fanchon.  Let  some  one  go  to  her  house 
and  prepare  her." 

"  How  !  is  Fanchon  married  ?"  cried  I. 

"  And  has  no  one  told  you  that  she  has  been  married  some 
years  now  to  Herr  Von  Ormy  ?" 

"  What !  the  misanthrope  ?" 

"The  very  same!"  answered  Mr.  Albret.  "But  she  has 
changed  the  strange  fellow  wonderfully.  He  is  quite  another 
man.  He  resides  here  in  Cransac,  has  bought  himself  the  most 
beautiful  country-seat  we  have  in  the  place.  He  has  settled 
down  among  us; — for  I  cannot  let  my  girls  leave  me.  That 
they  all  know." 

"  Herr  Albret,"  said  I  to  him,  softly,  and  led  him  to  the 
window,  "just  a  word!  Is  there  not,  perhaps,  yet  another 
pretty  house  to  be  bought  in  Cransac  ?" 

He  burst  out  a-laughing  at  this  question,  looked  at  me  for  a 
moment,  and  at  last  said  :  "  Somebody  was  saying  a  few  days 
ago  that  the  new  house  with  the  large  garden,  which  you  passed 
just  before  you  came  to  the  turnpike,  is  to  be  sold.  They  say, 
too,  it  is  cheap.  But  ask  Annette.  She  knows  better  than  I." 

While  I  was  renewing,  or  rather  forming,  an  acquaintance 
with  the  little  girls,  who  had  all  grown  and  changed  in  my 
absence,  my  misanthropic  Ormy  appeared,  with  a  beautiful 
young  woman  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  she  led  a  lovely  little 
fellow  of  a  year  and  a  half  old.  It  was — now  first  I  recognised 
her — it  was  Fanchon. 

We  greeted  one  another  with  the  heartiness  of  old  and  inti- 
mate friends. 

"  I  am  a  great  debtor  to  you,"  said  Von  Ormy  to  me.  "  I 
hope  you  will  grant  me  the  pleasure  of  showing  my  gratitude  by 
allowing  me  to  entertain  you  at  my  house.  I  have  happily 
followed  the  good  advice  you  gave  me  at  parting.  Do  you  not 
remember  that  you  recommended  that,  instead  of  going  to  Italy, 
I  should  come  to  Cransac  ?  Here,  you  said,  I  should  find  my 


THE    INN    AT    CRANSAC.  123 

medicine.  I  went  to  Italy,  but  did  not  find  it  there.  In  Florence 
your  words  recurred  to  me.  I  came  to  Cransac  and  found  the 
medicine  and  got  well,  and  it  was  not  at  all  hard  to  take."  With 
these  words  he  kissed  the  blushing  cheeks  of  his  lovely  wife. 

"  Do  not  believe  him !"  cried  Fanchon.  "  He  still  makes  wry 
faces  sometimes,  and  complains  that  the  medicine  is  bitter." 

It  was  a  happy  time.  Ormy  invited  me  to  dine  with  him. 
The  whole  family  were  accustomed  to  dine  with  him  every 
Sunday.  He  informed  me  that  he  had  made  his  peace  with  his 
mother,  and  that  she  resided  with  him.  During  the  Revolution 
she  had  lost  the  greater  part  of  her  property.  That  had  moved 
him,  just  after  his  marriage,  and  indeed  at  Fanchon's  request,  to 
write  to  his  mother  and  offer  her  a  home.  I  became  acquainted 
with  her.  She  was  a  woman  of  great  intelligence,  who  showed 
evidence  of  having  been  much  in  the  world,  and  who  had  through 
many  and  great  trials  attained  to  a  certain  tenderness,  a  patient 
devotion,  a  religious  way  of  life,  that  rendered  her  the  more 
captivating  to  all  who  approached  her. 

At  dinner  there  arose  a  friendly  quarrel  about  me  among 
these  dear  good  people.  Ormy  and  Fanchon  desired  that  so 
long  as  I  remained  in  Cransac,  I  should  make  my  home  with 
them.  But  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Albret  insisted  with  much  eloquence 
upon  their  superior  claims.  Even  Juliette,  Caton,  and  Celestina, 
the  younger  daughters,  mingled  their  lively  voices  in  the  strife. 
One  only,  one  whose  voice  I  most  wished  to  hear,  and  who 
would  easily  have  decided  me,  Annette  only  was  silent.  I 
looked  inquiringly  towards  her,  as  if  I  would  know  her  wishes. 
But  she  appeared  so  indifferent  about  it,  that  I  was  hurt.  She 
amused  herself  at  the  controversy,  as  if  she  were  a  mere  listener, 
and  had  no  interest  in  it.  And  when  her  sister  called  to  her 
to  come  to  her  help  and  speak  in  behalf  of  her  house,  Annette 
answered  smilingly,  "  O  thou  meek  Fanchon,  how  canst  thou 
doubt  of  thy  triumph  ?  When  didst  thou  ever  have  to  owe  thy 
victory  to  thy  sister's  aid  ?"  But  however  smilingly  she  uttered 
these  words,  there  still  appeared,  if  I  did  not  deceive  myself,  a 


124  THE    GIFT. 

little  bitterness, — no,  not  bitterness,  but  a  little  pain — expressed 
in  the  curl  of  her  beautiful  lips,  which  I  could  not  but  interpret 
to  my  advantage. 

I  foresaw  that  the  decision  of  this  difficult  matter  would  in  the 
end  be  referred  to  me.  So  I  begged  that  I  might  be  permitted  to 
run  in  and  out  from  one  house  to  the  other,  as  much  as  my  lame 
foot  would  allow,  declaring  that  for  me  some  hundred  steps  made 
no  distance  between  me  and  the  dear  friends  whom,  even  in 
Catalonia,  I  had  always  been  near  in  spirit. 

Of  this  declaration  they  intimated  some  doubt.  And  then  they 
began  to  reproach  me  for  never  having  sent  them  a  single  line 
over  the  Pyrenees  for  four  long  years.  All  uttered  their  re- 
proaches, excepting  Annette.  She  rather  took  my  part,  but 
somewhat  maliciously.  "  For  this  very  reason,"  said  she,  "  be- 
cause the  Colonel  was  always  with  us  in  spirit,  he  did  not 
write;  one  does  not  write  to  those  from  whom  one  is  not 
separated." 

But  this  vindication  was  not  satisfactory.  I  thought  imme- 
diately of  the  profiles  which  I  had  been  accustomed  to  cut  out 
in  Spain,  and  I  told  how  I  had  passed  my  pleasantest  leisure 
hours,  in  trying  to  make  the  family  present  to  my  eye.  In  this 
case  I  allowed  myself  in  a  little  fib,  and  said  to  Annette,  in  order 
to  punish  her  for  her  malice,  that  of  all  my  profiles,  I  was  most 
successful  in  hers.  I  pledged  myself  on  the  spot  to  cut  her 
profile  without  looking  at  her.  They  took  me  at  my  word. 
Scissors  and  paper  were  brought.  I  counted  upon  Annette's 
resemblance  to  Fanchon.  I  went  to  the  window.  In  a  few 
moments  the  work  was  done,  for  I  had  had  a  good  deal  of 
practice  in  it.  I  handed  Annette's  profile  to  the  beautiful  girl 
herself. 

She  looked  at  it  awhile,  shook  her  pretty  head,  and  said, 
"That  is  Fanchon!"  The  profile  went  round  from  hand  to 
hand,  and  every  one  said,  "  That  is  Fanchon !"  I  became 
embarrassed.  Fanchon  nodded  to  me,  and  said,  "  That  is  I !" 
Ormy  shook  his  finger  at  me  and  said,  "  I  account  myself  lucky 
that  I  did  not  come  too  late."  Mrs.  Albret  made  the  matter 


AH"  KIBE  EH. 


THE    INN    AT    CRANSAC.  125 

worse  when  she  meant  to  make  it  better.  "  There  is  a  good 
deal  in  it,"  said  she,  "  that  looks,  to  my  eye,  like  Annette. 
Only  when  the  Colonel  left  us,  she  was  a  child  of  fourteen. 
The  profile  looks  more  like  her  as  she  is  now  at  her  present 
age.  She  did  not  use  to  wear  her  hair  so.  It  was  more  Fan- 
chon's  way." 

"  That  decides  it !"  cried  every  one ;  "  certain  proof  that  he 
thought  only  of  Fanchon." 

"  No,"  I  replied,  "  it  proves  only  that  the  pictures  of  both,  so 
like  each  other  in  their  features,  blended  into  one  in  my  memory. 
And  were  I  to  open  my  trunk,  I  might  show  you  the  rose  which 
I  carried  away  as  my  only  jewel  from  Cransac,  and  which  Miss 
Annette  gave  me." 

Annette  blushed  deeply.  She  threw  a  despairing  glance 
toward  me.  "  And  we  have  yours  still,"  said  Mrs.  Albret,  "  in  a 
frame  under  glass,  and  encircled  with  beautiful  embroidery." 

I  was  delighted  now  that  every  one  sought  to  give  me  proof  of 
their  steady  friendship  and  remembrance.  I  was  thus  relieved 
from  my  embarrassment. 

Annette  I  had  at  first  admired  simply  as  a  model  of  childish 
beauty ;  but  Fanchon  I  had  loved,  Fanchon  I  had  thought  of, 
and  it  was  Fanchon  whom  I  had  come  again  to  seek.  In  the 
moment  of  my  arrival,  I  saw  only  Fanchon  in  Annette,  only  she 
appeared  to  me  more  lovely  than  I  had  ever  seen  her  before.  I 
loved  her  from  that  moment  with  a  holier  passion.  But  a  strange 
change  came  over  me  when  I  became  aware  of  my  mistake,  and 
convinced  myself  that  Annette  was  the  object  of  my  regard.  I 
was  in  the  most  painful  bewilderment  until  I  saw  the  real  Fan- 
chon again.  But  so  soon  as  she  appeared  at  the  side  of  her 
husband,  all  within  me  was  changed.  Every  feeling  in  me 
spoke  only  for  Annette.  Fanchon  was  still  young,  still  beau- 
tiful, still  lovely,  but  by  the  side  of  Annette  she  no  longer 
appeared  to  be  Fanchon.  The  magic  was  dissolved.  Fanchon 
still  was  to  me  a  dear  friend,  but  I  could  not  understand  how  I 
had  idolized  her.  And  had  she  still  been  unmarried,  I  should 
have  loved  only  Annette,  not  Fanchon.  At  my  first  visit  to 


126  THE    GIFT. 

Cransac,  I  had  entertained  for  Annette  a  sentiment,  which  I 
could  neither  avow  nor  make  clear  to  myself.  I  loved  Fanchon 
as  a  fair  maiden,  Annette  as  a  heavenly  picture,  not  created  for 
this  world ;  as  a  being  of  a  higher  order,  whom  one  could  scarcely 
approach  with  mortal  passion. 

Fanchon  was  very  happy  with  her  husband.  He  enjoyed 
heaven  with  her.  The  country-seat  where  they  resided  was 
delightfully  situated,  in  the  midst  of  well-laid-out  grounds.  Von 
Ormy  had  beautified  the  place  still  more. 

I  was  there  almost  every  day,  and  used  to  walk  in  the  shady 
parts  of  the  garden  when  I  came  from  the  bath.  I  envied  Ormy's 
good  fortune  when  I  saw  him  and  his  young  wife  walking  arm- 
in-arm  through  the  shrubbery,  or  sitting  together  under  the 
trees.  Then  I  thought,  but  with  sinking  hopes,  how  happy  I 
should  be  to  wander  with  the  lovely  Annette  at  my  side.  Annette 
loved  me  not.  Four  weeks  had  I  been  in  Cransac,  and  her 
manner  towards  me  underwent  no  change.  I  remained  four 
weeks  longer,  and  found  not  a  moment  to  see  her  alone.  Three 
months  passed  away,  and  I  stood,  still  apart  from  her,  chained 
as  it  were  by  some  invisible  power. 

Precisely  in  the  same  relation  in  which  I  had  stood  to  Fanchon 
four  years  before,  did  I  now  stand  to  her  sister.  As  the  former 
turned  every  serious  word  into  jest,  the  latter  did  likewise,  and 
made  every  attempt  on  my  part  to  a  greater  intimacy  fruitless, 
without  appearing  to  intend  it.  As  Fanchon,  through  her  but- 
terfly vivacity,  had  succeeded  in  always  seeming  not  to  hear  or 
understand  what  she  did  not  wish  to  hear  or  understand,  so  in 
like  manner  Annette  effected  the  same  thing  far  more  easily 
through  the  freedom  of  a  truly  childlike  innocence  and  a  certain 
dignity  which,  manifest  in  every  thing  she  did,  exerted  an  irre- 
sistible influence  upon  every  one  who  approached  her.  So  great 
was  her  power  over  me,  that  so  soon  as  I  was  near  her  I  could 
not  help  being  in  the  same  mood  in  which  she  appeared  herself. 
At  the  side  of  this  quiet,  gentle  and  holy  angel,  I  became 
ashamed  of  my  passion  as  an  unholy  thing. 

The  more  violently  was  my  heart  torn  with  the  inward  struggle. 


THE    INN    AT    CRANSAC.  127 

As  the  autumn  approached  I  gave  up  all  my  hopes,  and  thought 
only  of  escaping  greater  suffering  by  flight.  The  peace  of  my 
mind  was  lost. 

I  gave  out  that  the  urgent  request  of  my  relatives  called  me 
to  my  paternal  estate,  and  I  made  preparations  for  my  departure. 
They  mourned  at  the  prospect  of  losing  me,  and  Annette  with 
the  rest.  They  insisted  upon  my  promising  to  spend  some  time 
with  them  the  next  spring  at  the  latest,  but  Annette  did  not  join 
in  the  invitation.  I  was  doubtful  whether  she  loved  me  or  really 
wished  to  get  rid  of  me. 

One  morning  I  was  walking  with  her  and  Fanchon  through 
Von  Ormy's  garden.  I  paused  before  a  rose-bush  and  said  jest- 
ingly to  Annette :  "  When  I  left  Cransac  before,  you  gave  me  a 
rose  to  take  with  me.  But  now  I  shall  receive  none.  The 
queen  of  flowers  has  vanished.  Like  all  our  joys,  she  withers 
and  leaves  only  thorns  behind." 

Annette  blushed,  looked  somewhat  embarrassed,  but  recovered 
herself  immediately,  and  replied  with  that  sweet  smile  of  hers, 
"  It  is  my  sister's  turn  this  time."  Fanchon  was  about  to  speak, 
when  a  servant  came  and  called  her  away.  Annette  showed  an 
inclination  to  follow  her  sister,  but  Fanchon  went  away  saying, 
"  I  will  be  back  in  a  moment.  In  the  meanwhile  do  you  settle 
this  matter." 

"  So  I  must  go  this  time  without  any  memento  of  you  !"  said  I. 

"  Do  you  need  any  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  need  nothing  to  remind  me  of  you — alas  !  every  thing  will 
remind  me  that  I  am  far  from  Annette  !  but  yet  something  from 
your  own  hand  would  bring  you  more  vividly  before  me.  It 
would  give  me  some  consolation." 

With  a  roguish  smile  she  looked  at  me  and  said :  "  Annette, 
who  gave  you  the  rose,  was  not  so  present  to  you  in  Spain  as 
Fanchon,  who  gave  you  none.  I  would,  therefore,  change  places 
with  Fanchon.  You  see  I  am  selfish  " 

"  And  a  little  unjust  and  cruel  at  the  same  time.  You  know 
it,  you  feel  it,  and  yet  you  persist  in  being  so.  I  could  wish 


128  THE    GIFT. 

that  I  had  not  come  again  to  Cransac,  for  it  will  be  my  misfor- 
tune, perhaps  for  ever.  I  shall  never  see  Cransac  again." 

"  You  frighten  me,  my  dear  Colonel.  For  what  do  you 
blame  me  ?" 

"  That  you  drive  me  from  the  place,  which  is  the  dearest  spot 
to  me  in  the  world." 

"  Mercy  !  what  a  fancy !  I  drive  you  away  ?  Heaven  is  my 
witness.  Our  whole  family  grieves,  and  I  no  less  than  the  rest, 
that  you  must  leave  us." 

"  And  yet  it  is  for  you  to  say  whether  I  shall  remain.  Not 
for  Fanchon,  not  for  your  whole  family,  only  for  you  would  I 
remain :  a  word  from  you  decides  me.  You  know  it.  I  breathe 
only  for  you ;  I  love  only  you.  The  world  holds  nothing  dearer 
tome.  Shall  I  stay?" 

Annette  cast  a1  own  her  eyes  and  walked  on. 

"  Shall  I  stay  ?"  I  asked  again  more  urgently,  and  took  her 
hand. 

She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  me  with  a  touching  earnestness  and 
said:  "Colonel,  do  not  deceive  me,  do  not  deceive  yourself. 
Why  should  you  ?  Confess  to  me  frankly :  when  you  were  in 
Spain,  you  forgot  Annette  and  thought  only  of  Fanchon." 

"  No,  I  thought  of  Annette  and  did  not  forget  Fanchon.  An- 
nette's rose  has  still  remained  my  most  precious  treasure,  and 
it  shall  lie  with  me  in  my  coffin." 

"  When  you  came  hither  from  Spain,  did  you  not  take  me 
for  Fanchon  ?  Be  honest  with  me." 

"  Yes,  dear  Annette,  I  did  take  you  for  Fanchon,  but  I  found 
you  more  beautiful  than  Fanchon,  more  charming,  more  cap- 
tivating than  Fanchon.  I  felt  myself  justified  in  having  four 
years  ago  given  the  rose  to  you  instead  of  your  sister.  Ah, 
Annette,  I  regarded  you  not  as  an  earthborn  maiden,  but  as  an 
angel  not  belonging  to  this  world.  Believe  me,  and  at  least 
pity  my  fate,  that  it  separates  me  now  from  you,  as  I  can  be 
nothing — nothing  in  your  eyes." 

"Who  says  that?"  she  asked,  and  turned  to  me  with  eyes 
filled  with  tears. 


THE    INN    AT    CRANSAC.  129 

I  was  in  an  ecstasy  at  this  question,  which  seemed  to  come 
from  the  very  depths  of  her  soul — at  these  tears.  "  O  An- 
nette, shall  I  stay  ?" 

"  Do  you  ask  that  again,  when  I  have  been  so  weak  as  to 
betray  myself  to  you  ?"  said  she  and  fell  weeping  into  my  arms. 

We  were  locked  in  a  silent  embrace,  when  the  arms  of 
another  suddenly  clasped  us  round.  Fanchon  had  crept  softly 
behind  us,  thrown  her  arms  around  us,  and  then  she  kissed  first 
her  sister,  then  me.  "  I  hope,  Annette,"  said  she,  "  that  thou 
wilt  not  be  angry  with  me  if  I  give  now  at  last  the  sister-kiss  to 
thy  bashful  shepherd." 

So  there  was  of  course  an  end  to  all  thoughts  of  going  away. 
Fanchon's  raillery  helped  us  to  recover  ourselves.  We  went 
into  the  house  to  Mr.  Von  Ormy.  "  Now  I  live  a  whole  life  !" 
said  he,  an  exclamation  for  which  Fanchon  instantly  gave  him  a 
severe  lecture.  While  they  were  quarrelling,  I  left  them  for  a 
moment,  and  flew  to  the  proprietor  of  that  pretty  house  with  the 
garden  which  Herr  Albret  had  mentioned.  I  had  already  visited 
it  several  times  ;  and  I  should  have  bought  it  earlier,  had  I  had 
Annette's  consent.  The  purchase  was  now  soon  decided  and  the 
papers  prepared.  I  came  back. 

Annette  extended  her  hand  to  me  and  expressed  her  wonder 
at  my  sudden  and  somewhat  long  absence :  "  Where  have  you 
been  ?" 

"  I  have  been,"  whispered  I  in  her  ear,  "  to  purchase  a  pretty 
house  and  a  garden  full  of  most  beautiful  roses.  From  this  day 
it  belongs  to  you." 

She  blushed  with  joy  and  cried  :  "  Just  think,  he  has  bought 
us  that  beautiful  house  !" 

We  went  in  merry  procession  to  Herr  Albret.  I  told  him  and 
his  wife  of  my  purchase.  He  looked  somewhat  sharply  at  An- 
nette. She  flew  into  his  arms,  and  then  sunk  with  inexpressible 
happiness  on  her  mother's  bosom. 

From  that  day  I  date  my  heaven-days  upon  earth.  Annette  is 
my  wife.  The  Inn  at  Cransac  made  Von  Ormy's  happiness 
and  mine.  It  can  make  the  happiness  of  four  more. 

12 


SONG  OF  THE  ANGELS. 
PROM  GOETHE'S  "  FAUST." 

BY  F.  H.  HEDGE. 
RAPHAEL. 

THE  Sun  in  wonted  wise  is  sounding 

With  brother  spheres  a  rival  song, 
And,  on  his  destined  circuit  bounding, 

With  thunder-step  he  speeds  along. 
The  sight  gives  angels  strength,  though  greater 

Than  angels'  utmost  thought  sublime ; 
And  all  thy  wondrous  works,  Creator ! 

Still  bloom  as  in  Creation's  prime. 

GABRIEL. 

And  fleetly,  thought  surpassing,  fleetly 

The  earth's  green  pomp  is  spinning  round ; 
There  Paradise  alternates  sweetly 

With  Night  terrific  and  profound. 
Here  foams  the  sea,  with  broad  wave  beating 

Against  the  deep  cliff's  rocky  base ; 
And  rock  and  sea  away  are  fleeting 

In  never-ending  spheral  chase. 


SOXGOFTHEAXGELS.  131 

MICHAEL. 

And  storms,  with  rival  fury  heaving, 

From  land  to  sea,  from  sea  to  land, 
Still,  as  they  rave,  a  chain  are  weaving 

Of  linked  efficacy  grand. 
There  burning  Desolation  blazes, 

Precursor  of  the  Thunder's  way, 
But,  Lord  !  thy  servants  own  with  praises 

The  gentle  movement  of  thy  day. 

THE  THREE  TOGETHER. 

The  sight  gives  angels  strength,  though  greater 
Than  angels'  utmost  thought  sublime ; 

And  all  thy  wondrous  works,  Creator ! 
Still  bloom  as  in  Creation's  prime. 


EVENING  FLOWERS. 

BY  MRS.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY. 

WHEN  shuts  the  rose  at  eventide, 

The  lily  folds  its  bell, 
And  wildings  on  the  mountain  side, 

Sleep  in  their  hermit  cell, 

Then  sweetly,  'neath  the  twilight  gray, 

Or  where  the  taper  stands, 
Or  by  the  quiet  fireside's  ray, 

The  heart  its  bloom  expands. 

The  influence  of  its  favouring  hour 

The  watchful  lover  knows, 
And  marks  its  soft,  mimosa-leaves, 

Their  modest  charms  disclose. 

The  husband,  by  its  fragrance  cheered, 

Unlocks  the  cares  of  day, 
Which  'neath  the  warm,  confiding  smile, 

Like  shadows  flit  away. 

The  fond,  exulting  parent  culls 

Its  blossoms,  rich  and  red, 
And  twines  a  garland  bright  with  hope, 

For  each  young  slumberer's  head. 


EVENING    FLOWERS.  133 

While  they  who  best  its  root  protect, 

With  thrilling  breast  shall  prove, 
How  the  sweet  charities  of  home 

Fit  for  a  heaven  of  love. 

But  when  this  heart-flower  droops  its  head, 

And  wearied  mortals  ask 
That  deep  repose  which  nightly  fits 

For  morn's  returning  task, 

Up  springs  another  at  its  side, 

With  calm  and  lowly  eye, 
A  seraph-planted  seed,  that  holds 

Communion  with  the  sky, — 

The  soul  that  flower !     Its  breath  is  prayer ; 

And  fresh  its  balm-drops  flow, 
To  cleanse  the  ills  that  stained  the  day, 

And  heal  the  pang  of  woe, 

While  gently  o'er  its  closing  sigh, 

With  holy  vision,  bends 
That  angel-guarded  sleep,  which  God 

To  his  beloved  sends. 


12* 


A    PRAIRIE    JUMBIE. 

BY  CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 

JUMBIE  ! — That  word  puzzles  you,  reader.  You  think  it's 
Indian  for  a  prairie-dog  or  some  other  animal  peculiar  to  those 
grassy  wilds ;  or,  if  not  that,  it  must  be  border  slang  for  a 
bivouac,  or  a  breakdown,  or  a  feat  or  adventure  of  some  kind 
that,  happening  only  to  the  rovers  of  the  prairie,  requires  some 
outre  and  new-fangled  phrase  to  characterize  it !  My  dear  sir, 
you  were  never  more  mistaken  in  your  life ;  a  jumbie  is  nothing 
of  the  kind.  Nor  are  jumbies  in  any  way  necessarily  connected 
with  prairies.  The  word  sounds  oddly  to  your  ears,  and  your 
matter-of-fact  Anglo-Saxon  mind  may  be  startled  at  the  idea  it 
is  intended  to  represent.  Yet  if  you  have  one  particle  of  ima- 
gination drawn  from  Norman  or  Danish  origin  I  care  not  how 
many  thousand  years  ago,  if  you  have  the  least  droplet  of 
Scandinavian  blood  to  vivify  the  Anglo-Saxon  canal-current  in 
your  veins,  you  will  acknowledge  at  once  the  excellence  of  the 
word  and  the  image-fact  of  which  it  is  the  symbol.  Nay,  more, 
after  being  convinced  that  you  have  more  than  once  in  your  life 
encountered  a  jumbie,  and  that  jumbies  do,  moreover,  abound  in 
every  scene  and  condition  of  civilized  life ;  you  will  have  a 
half-mortified,  half-compassionating  feeling,  both  for  the  people 
among  whom  you  live,  and  the  poverty-stricken,  unimaginative, 
unphilosophical  language  that  you  speak,  both  of  which  are 
content  to  flourish  in  blind  conceit  of  their  scope  of  thought  and 


A    PRAIRIE    JUMBIE.  135 

power  of  expression,  though  this  all-important  word  and  the  idea 
it  represents,  are  alike  unknown  among  them ! 

But  you  grow  impatient.  I  must  elucidate  a  little,  or  you  will 
jump  at  once  to  the  conclusion  of  this  paper  without  giving  me  a 
fair  reading.  Yet,  remember,  if  I  reveal  to  you  here  the  ex- 
ternal characteristics  of  a  jumbie,  it  is  on  the  implied  condition 
that  you  read  fairly  through  the  singular  illustration  of  its 
spiritual  mystery  which  suggested  this  sketch. 

Did  you  ever  have  a  doggrel  couplet  fasten  so  perversely  upon 
your  memory  that  it  kept  gnawing  there  for  days  together  ? 

Did  you  ever  have  a  Jim  Crow  bar  of  music  rattling  in  your 
ear,  like  a  pebble  in  a  calibash,  so  incessantly,  that  the  remem- 
bered strains  of  Maiibran  or  Pedrotti  seemed  banished  thence 
for  ever,  to  give  full  scope  to  the  solo  of  this  jingling  intruder  ? 

Did  you  never  while  writing  cast  your  eye  up  accidentally 
upon  some  trivial  object,  either  in  your  room,  or  seen  through 
the  window,  to  which  your  gaze  still  recurred  involuntarily,  till 
it  began  to  blend  its  material  form  with  other  images  passing 
through  your  fancy,  and  ultimately  became  a  source  of  fretful 
annoyance  1 

Did  you  never  while  duck-shooting,  in  some  long  interval  of 
a  flight  of  fowl,  have  the  monotonous  bobbing  up  and  down  of 
your  wooden  decoy  upon  the  waves  afflict  you  with  a  sort  of 
sea-sickness,  yet  be  unable,  without  leaving  the  spot,  to  keep 
your  eyes  long  away  from  it  ? 

Did  you  ever — but  once  getting  out  of  doors  the  instances  of 
eye  or  ear  being  thus  afflicted  crowd  innumerably  upon  me — a 
tree  toad,  when  the  senses  fairly  ache  in  hours  of  still  watching 
for  deer,  a  single  groaning  bough  when  sleeping  in  the  deep  and 
quiet  woods,  a  half-submerged  lotus-leaf  that  flaps  its  speckled 
edges  ever  and  anon  upon  the  ripple  where  twice  already  you 
have  thrown  your  fly  for  a  breaking  trout,  and  which  still  again 
you  must  try ; — these,  reader,  all  of  these,  these  and  the  whole 
family  of  such  *  annoyances  of  fancy,'  as  they  might  be 
called,  in  a  loose  attempt  to  define  them,  these  are  all  veritable 
jumbies  f 


136  THE    GIFT. 

But  'tis  very  arbitrary,  say  you,  to  fix  such  an  outlandish 
epithet  upon  those  well-known  mental  phenomena. 

Excuse  me  :  the  epithet,  as  you  disdainfully  call  it,  is  a  real 
word — a  word  some  thousands  of  years  old,  probably.  It  ex- 
presses, too,  a  distinct  idea ;  it  has  a  definite  meaning ;  and 
thus  fulfilling  a  clear  mission  of  thought,  it  is,  to  my  mind, 
uncouth  as  it  seems,  far  more  respectable  than  your  general- 
izing phrase  of  *  mental  phenomenon.'  At  all  events,  the 
manner  in  which  I  first  became  acquainted  with  the  full  dignity 
of  the  term  can  never  be  effaced  from  my  memory. 

Many  years  since  I  found  myself,  one  dismal  autumn  day,  on 
the  edge  of  one  of  the  largest  prairies  of  our  Northwest  Territory, 
debating  with  a  fellow-traveller  the  expediency  of  attempting 
to  cross  it  so  late  in  the  season.  The  objections  were  threefold. 
In  the  first  place,  the  prairie  had  been  lately  burned,  and  it 
would  be  necessary  to  carry  all  our  provender  with  us.  In  the 
next,  the  season  was  so  late  that  there  was  danger  of  snow,  and 
there  being  no  islands  of  timber  to  shelter  us,  no  means  of  guid- 
ance save  a  compass,  in  case  of  a  storm  of  any  violence,  we 
should  almost  inevitably  lose  our  way,  and  starve,  or  perish 
from  exposure  to  the  elements.  The  third  objection  was  the 
condition  of  my  own  health — for,  though  my  spirits  were  tole- 
rably good,  my  strength  had  been  lately  much  prostrated  by  an 
attack  of  ague,  in  which  my  nervous  system  suffered  not  a  little. 
Indeed,  my  acquaintance  with  the  gentleman  who  was  now  my 
companion,  commenced  in  the  kind  offices  I  received  from  him 
in  permitting  his  black  West  India  servant  to  devote  his  whole 
care  to  me,  at  the  miserable  cabin  where  his  master  had  lighted 
upon  me,  soon  after  I  was  overtaken  with  indisposition. 

The  stranger  had  started  originally  to  make  a  tour  of  the 
prairies,  and  as  crossing  the  one  before  us  would,  by  bringing 
him  to  a  trading  post  and  navigable  water,  thus  complete  his 
intended  circuit  of  the  western  frontier,  it  will  seem  perfectly 
natural  that  I  would  not  permit  considerations  for  my  comfort  to 
induce  him  to  take  '  the  back  track'  and  retrace  the  scenes  he 
had  already  visited.  He  had  waited  for  me  when  unfit  for 


A    PRAIRIE    JUMBIE.  137 

travel ;  he  was  still  unwilling  to  leave  me, — and  I  was  deter- 
mined he  should  make  his  sweep  round  to  the  settlements  by  the 
course  he  had  originally  laid  out  for  himself.  In  a  word,  we 
started  from  Fidler's  Grove,  the  « station'  where  my  friend,  as  I 
may  venture  to  call  him,  had  exhausted  the  single  source  of  amuse- 
ment it  offered,  by  shooting  some  hundreds  of  prairie  chickens 
from  the  leafless  trees  with  the  settler's  rifle,  whose  use  he  had  ap- 
propriated to  himself  during  the  tedious  days  that  I  was  confined 
to  the  cabin.  We  started  on  a  bright,  clear  November  morning, 
my  friend  and  myself  lightly  mounted  on  the  long-limbed  horses 
of  the  country,  and  his  negro  man,  fitted  with  one  tough  Indian 
pony  for  himself,  and  leading  another  as  a  sumpter-horse  with 
our  luggage. 

Within  an  hour  we  had  lost  sight  of  the  nearest  spurs  of 
woodland.  But  though  nothing  save  the  sky  and  the  monoto- 
nous plain  before  us  was  visible,  we  were  still,  speaking  in 
reference  to  its  size,  on  the  edge  of  this  immense  prairie.  The 
sky,  too,  as  is  common  after  a  bright  morning  in  November, 
was  overcast  and  dismal-looking, — threatening  no  immediate 
storm,  but  ungenial  and  forbidding,  a  fitting  dome  for  the  black 
and  cindery  waste  beneath  it. 

My  friend,  who  was  even  of  more  mercurial  temperament  than 
myself,  became  soon  silent,  as  if  oppressed  by  the  scene ;  and 
instead  of  continuing  to  ride  abreast  with  me,  gradually  pushed 
his  horse  a  little  in  advance.  As  he  carried  the  compass  there 
could  be  no  inconvenience  in  this,  and  I  found  a  resource  mean- 
while in  conversing  with  his  simple-minded  black  servant  about 
the  many  grotesque  and  amusing  superstitions  of  the  Caribbee 
Islands,  of  which  he  was  a  native.  Then  after  a  time,  when  upon 
referring  to  my  watch  I  found  that  I  had  passed  a  full  hour  in 
the  same  unsocial  mood  as  my  friend,  I  thought  it  well  to 
remind  him  that  we  would  have  a  still  more  monotonous  day 
to-morrow.  For  he  already  knew  that,  while  it  would  take  three 
days  to  cross  the  prairie,  a  certain  hollow,  spring,  and  thicket,  to 
which  we  could  look  forward  as  a  bourne,  offering  some  variety 
to  the  fortunes  of  to-day's  travel,  would  be  wholly  wanting  on 


138  THE    GIFT. 

the  second  day,  when  we  must  'camp  down'  upon  the  level 
plain.  While  speaking  thus,  being  still  in  the  rear  of  my  friend, 
his  horse,  as  he  turned  around  to  reply,  put  one  of  his  fore  feet 
in  a  gopher-hole,  and  was  thrown  upon  his  knees  with  a  violence 
which  dislodged  his  rider  without  injuring  him,  laming  the  brute 
at  the  same  time,  not  seriously,  but  enough  to  make  him  unplea- 
sant riding. 

This  incident  compelled  us  to  stop  and  make  a  new  arrange- 
ment ;  my  friend  taking  the  sumpter-pony  and  transferring  the 
luggage  to  the  lame  horse.  While  the  negro  attended  to  this  we 
both  dismounted.  The  opportunity  seemed  a  favourable  one  for 
refreshment.  My  companion,  after  swallowing  a  glass  of  old 
Santa  Cruce,  which  he  carried  already  mixed  with  water,  an- 
nounced himself  decidedly  hungry.  The  cold  ham  and  buffalo- 
tongue  must  be  got  at.  To  do  this  conveniently  the  horses  must 
be  tethered.  It  would  not  be  safe  to  trust  the  negro  with  holding 
all  four  of  them  while  we  were  dining.  To  tether  the  horses  the 
stakes  we  had  brought  with  us  must  be  driven, — a  mallet,  which 
had  been  provided  in  the  entire  absence  of  all  stones  upon  the 
prairie,  being  used  for  that  purpose.  All  this  takes  time.  And 
time  is  nowhere  more  valuable  than  in  the  middle  of  a  burned 
prairie,  which  it  would  be  wise,  in  spite  of  the  tendency  of  all 
things  to  the  centre,  to  get  away  from  as  quickly  as  possible.  But 
the  sun  has  come  out,  the  day  is  closing  beautifully,  there  will  be 
a  moon  to-night,  and  my  West  India  friend  derides  my  anxiety 
to  repack  our  necessaries  and  get  under  way  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible upon  the  barren  sea  of  cinders  that  stretches  before  us. 

I  can  recall  nothing  more  beautiful  than  the  sunset  of  that  day, 
more  singularly  grand — more  excitingly  spectacular, — more  like 
a  vision  of  rare  things  in  some  other  planet.  Sunset  at  sea  seems 
to  mingle  the  waters  with  the  sky  by  the  reflected  glow — sunset 
among  mountains  also  shares  its  glory  with  the  earth  as  the  golden 
beams  revel  around  their  summits,  and  linger  as  if  they  had  no 
right  to  rob  them  of  light  even  at  the  last.  But  sunset  upon 
a  burned  and  blackened  prairie,  is  a  creation  of  the  skies  only. 
Earth  seems  to  have  no  share  in  it.  There  is  no  fusing  of  tints 


A    PRAIRIE    JUMBIE.  139 

and  colours,  no  rose-hued  paths  leading  from  one  to  the  other. 
No  tissue  of  rays  inwoven  so  closely  with  things  of  touch  around 
that  fancy  glides  at  once  from  earth  to  heaven.  You  stand  on 
the  bare  black  ground,  a  lonely  helpless  man,  and  look  as  it 
were  right  into  a  paradise,  without  for  an  instant  forgetting  that 
you  are  outside  of  it.  You  thrill  with  awe — you  do  not  melt 
with  admiration.  In  a  word,  you  see  two  clear  and  distinct 
creations  before  you,  and  the  naked  reality  of  the  one  seems  to 
stun  conviction  into  you  of  the  vivid  actuality  of  the  other. 

But  now  these  splendours,  so  rich,  warm,  and  magnificent,  are 
passing  away.  The  moon  has  come  out.  She  is  near  the 
zenith.  The  clouds  which  gave  such  gorgeous  effect  to  the 
crimson  rays  that  but  now  laced  them,  have  sunk  below  the 
horizon.  Yet  prodigal  in  grandeur,  profuse  in  beauty  as  was 
the  scene  but  now,  there  is  even  a  mightier  loveliness,  a  more 
complete,  intense  and  concentrated  lavishment  of  the  beautiful, 
a  more  majestic  oneness  of  sentiment  in  that  clear,  calm,  radiant 
dome,  whose  pearly  rim  rests  upon  the  black  prairie  like  infini- 
tude in  repose.  My  ideas  of  physical  grandeur  have  hitherto 
been  all  drawn  from  '  cloud-capped  mountains,'  but  surely 
never  did  I  see  the  earth  wear  such  an  aspect  of  dignity  as  in 
this  apparent  meek  yet  firm  upholding  of  that  magnificent  vault. 

We  had  ridden  long  in  silence — a  silence  that  was  at  first 
broken  only  by  whispers — and  why  ? — I  care  not  who  laughs  at 
the  extravagance  of  the  fancy — but,  though  neither  of  us  cared 
to  define  the  feeling  at  the  time,  I  have  no  question  that  both  my 
friend  and  myself  unconsciously  deemed  ourselves  gliding  over 
the  floor  of  some  vast  and  solemn  temple. 

I  remember  well  it  was  the  negro  who  first  spoke,  and  his 
tone  of  voice  was  suppressed  as  if  in  awe ;  while  it  was  in  an 
actual  whisper,  my  friend  referred  to  me  in  replying  to  his 
remark.  Yet  the  conversation  had  nothing  to  do,  either  with 
the  grandeur  of  the  scene  or  the  emotions  it  inspired.  The 
lame  horse  it  seems  showed  signs  of  weariness,  and  the  black 
called  our  attention  to  the  fact  that  we  ought  before  that  time 


140  THE    GIFT. 

to  have  reached  the  hollow,  where  we  expected  to  pass  the  night. 
It  was  certainly  so.  The  night  was  wearing  on,  yet  the  shrub- 
bery indicating  a  marshy  swale  in  the  prairie  was  nowhere 
visible.  The  fickle  November  wind  began  now  to  rise,  and  the 
clouds  which  rose  like  apparitions  from  the  black  prairie  horizon 
might  soon  climb  upwards  and  obscure  the  moon.  Decision  is 
all  important  at  such  a  moment.  Nothing  could  be  bleaker  than 
the  spot  where  we  had  halted.  But  the  horses  must  be  fed  and 
cared  for ;  they  had  drank  from  a  rain-water  pool  within  the  last 
hour ;  we  must  abandon  our  search  for  the  spring  to-night,  and 
use  whatever  light  was  left  to  secure  them  properly. 

I  slept  well  that  night,  as,  wet  or  dry,  I  always  sleep  in  the 
open  air,  whatever  may  be  the  consequences  of  the  exposure 
afterwards  :  a  hint  that  may  be  of  service  to  the  faculty  when 
want  of  sleep  is  the  prominent  evil  with  a  patient. 

"  Well,  Frank,"  said  his  master  to  the  negro  as  he  jerked  him 
to  his  feet  at  daybreak, — "  'tis  full  as  well  that  we  didn't  find 
that  spring  last  night,  for  it  will  be  just  the  place  to  breakfast  at." 

"  Better  not  look  for  him,  massa  ;  dat  spring  jumbie — prairie 
jumbie — jumbie  all  around  us." 

My  friend  laughed,  and  I  scarcely  noticed  the  remark  in  the 
hurried  preparations  for  starting  which  followed.  We  rode  on 
for  hours  discovering  not  the  slightest  indication  of  the  spring 
and  thicket,  but  encountering  every  few  miles  one  of  the  shallow 
rain-water  pools  which  from  time  to  time  had  broken  the  perfect 
monotony  of  our  yesterday's  travel — I  should  not  say  '  broken 
the  monotony,'  for  they  were  so  unmarked  by  any  shape  or 
expression,  and  were  all  so  perfectly  alike,  that  they  seemed 
rather  to  impress  one  more  strongly  with  the  unvarying  same- 
ness of  the  scene.  Near  one  of  these  limpid  shallows,  that  like 
all  of  them  seemed  scarcely  a  hand's-breadth  in  depth,  I  sug- 
gested, as  the  sun  was  now  several  hours  high,  that  we  should 
halt  for  breakfast. 

"  Well,  Frank,"  said  I  to  the  negro,  who  eat  a  little  apart  from 
us,  while  we  helped  ourselves  to  the  fare  that  was  spread  out 


A    PRAIRIE    JUMBIE.  141 

upon  a  bison-skin  used  by  way  of  table-cloth — "  well,  Frank, 
don't  you  think  this  pool  will  answer  as  well  as  the  spring  would, 
to  wash  your  dishes  in  ?" 

"  Pool  jumbie — jis  as  spring  jumbie — prairie  all  jumbie — 
nebber  get  away  from  him." 

I  was  about  to  ask  an  explanation  of  the  word — "  Pray  you, 
pardon  me,"  cried  my  friend,  laying  his  hand  upon  my  arm — 
"  Frank,  how  the  deuce  do  you  make  out  the  spring  to  be  a 
jumbie  ?" 

"  Cause  Frank  tink — tink  of  him  all  day  long — tink  ob  him, 
nebber  find  him — but  still  can't  help  tink  ob  him.  What  dat 
but  jumbie  spirit  trouble  Frank  so,  massa  ?" 

"  But  this  puddle  of  water,"  laughed  my  friend,  "  you  find 
plenty  like  it,  how  is  that  a  jumbie  too  ?" 

"  No  find  but  one  puddle  from  de  fust.  He  be  same  old 
puddle.  Come,  come,  again.  Tire  nigger  wid  looking  at  him, 
yet  he  can't  help  look  for  some  difference  dro'  he  know  always 
turn  out  de  same.  What  dat  but  jumbie  spirit  ?" 

"  And  the  prairie,"  cried  I,  almost  screaming  with  laughter  at 
the  grotesque  whimsicality  of  the  superstition,  then  perfectly  new 
to  me — "  The  prairie,  Frank,  what  do  you  make  of  that  ?" 

"  He  be  all  jumbie — de  biggest  jumbie  of  de  world — always 
de  same,  and  you  nebber,  nebber  get  rid  of  him." 

Then  the  poor  fellow  actually  burst  into  tears,  and  began  to 
wring  his  hands  most  piteously — "  Oh  massa,  massa,  what  will 
become  ob  de  massa  and  his  poor  Frank  !  De  little  jumbie  spirit 
always  bad  enough  when  he  get  hold  of  folks — but  here  we  be 
on  de  back  ob  great  big  jumbie,  who  keeps  sliding  from  under  us 
all  de  while  we  tink  ourselves  moving,  keeping  us  jes  in  de 
same,  same  spot,  for  ebber,  for  ebber.  Oh  de  poor  nigger  will 
nebber  see  de  trees,  nor  de  hills,  nor  de  running  water  of  Gorra 
Mighty's  yarth.  Nebber  see  any  ting  but  dis  black  jumbie- 
back,  nebber,  nebber  more." 

I  looked  at  the  face  of  my  friend,  and  I  confess  there  was  a 
blankness  of  expression  which  struck  me  as  arguing  some 

13 


142  THE    GIFT. 

emotion  other  than  concern  and  sympathy  for  the  agitation  of  his 
poor  ignorant  bondman.  Could  it  be  that  some  pagan  foster-nurse 
among  those  of  the  same  complexion  as  Frank,  had  so  imbued 
him  in  childhood  with  the  same  superstitious  feelings,  that  they 
now  were  re-awakened  unpleasantly  by  the  earnest  and  most 
painful  exhibition  of  fanciful  suffering  in  the  other  ]  Surely  I 
myself  could  not  be  affected,  save  with  mirth,  by  such  absurd 
credulity. 

I  declare  I  was  not  so  sure  of  this  when  several  hours'  subse- 
quent travel  brought  us  to  a  pool  which  so  exactly  resembled 
that  seen  in  the  morning,  that  I  could  not  for  the  life  of  me  help 
adding  a  whistle  of  wonderment  to  the  woful  chorus  of  ejacula- 
tions into  which  poor  Frank  broke  at  the  sight  of  it.  Every 
landmark  around  us — if  I  may  use  that  word  where  landmarks 
there  were  none — every  feature  of  the  landscape — if  the  phrase 
be  admissible  where  the  painter's  art  were  a  nullity — all,  all 
around  us  was  one  dull,  dead,  unbroken  monotony — an  intermi- 
nable dark  level — an  eye-wearying  waste — marked  only,  but  not 
relieved,  by  that  circular  limpid  shallow,  reflecting  an  ashen  sky ; 
and  sky,  earth,  and  pool,  all  equally  motionless,  without  the 
faintest  shadow  or  one  variety  of  tint,  save  the  leaden  hues  of 
the  same  sombre  colour. 

We  talked  but  little  during  that  day.  About  sunset  a  breeze, 
which  crept  over  the  waste  in  little  whirlwinds,  enlivened  us 
somewhat,  but  I  cannot  remember  that  one  jest  was  successful 
enough  to  raise  a  smile  from  either  of  us.  But  indeed  neither 
my  friend  nor  myself  could  restrain  our  risibles,  had  we  cared  to, 
at  one  remark  of  Frank's  when  we  came  to  camp  down  for  the 
night.  The  poor  fellow  had  just  lighted  a  spirit-lamp  to  make 
coffee  for  us,  when  a  blast  of  wind  which  suddenly  swept  the 
prairie,  extinguished  the  flame. 

"  What  do  you  sit  so  stupidly  there  for,  Frank? — why  don't 
you  light  another  match  ?"  said  his  master. 

"  No  use  yet — no  use  jes  now,  please,  massa.  Nigger  wait 
till  we  hab  done  slipping." 


A    PRAIRIE    JUMBIE.  143 

"  Slipping! — why  what  do  you  mean  now,  Frank?" 

"  Gorra,  massa,  what  make  dat  great  wind  but  de  jumbie-back 
slipping  from  under  us  to  put  white  folks  and  nigger  jes  where 
we  started  in  de  mornin' — what  but  dat  make  de  wind  to  blow 
lamp  out  ?" 

The  merriment  called  out  by  this  whimsical  idea  of  the  sable 
physiologist,  was  not  a  bad  preparation  for  cheerful  rest.  But 
our  anxiety  took  a  new  turn  in  the  morning,  upon  discovering 
that  our  horse-feed  would  not  hold  out  for  more  than  another 
day.  It  is  true  that  we  had  not  originally  expected  it  to  last 
longer.  But,  though  steadily  following  the  guidance  of  the 
compass,  and  therefore  confident  that  our  course  must  have  been 
laid  truly,  yet  the  single  fact  of  having,  in  our  first  day's  travel, 
missed  that  spring — the  one  only  landmark  of  our  journey — 
annoyed  us  not  a  little,  as  the  incident  became  coloured  by  the 
scene  and  circumstances  around  us  ;  viewed  sometimes,  perhaps, 
unconsciously  to  ourselves,  through  the  wild  superstition  of  the 
negro. 

The  day  proved  not  only  mild  for  the  season,  but  even 
oppressively  warm,  and  about  noontide  the  lame  horse  gave  out 
completely.  We  removed  his  load,  took  off  the  halter,  and  left 
the  poor  brute  to  his  fate,  upon  that  dreary  heath,  which  the  next 
year's  summer  would  alone  freshen  with  a  blade  of  herbage. 
He  followed  us  for  awhile,  and  we  hoped  might  be  yet  able  to 
keep  us  in  view ;  but  pain  or  a  feebleness  of  disposition  which 
from  the  first  had  marked  his  temper,  made  him  stop  short  at 
last.  I  turned  once  or  twice  in  the  saddle  to  look  for  him 
afterwards,  but  he  always  stood  planted  in  the  same  spot,  fixed 
there  beneath  that  glaring  noonday  sun  as  immovably  as  the 
^nome  upon  a  dial. 

I  could  not  help  expressing  my  surprise  that  Frank,  who,  with 
a  benevolence  common  to  the  negro  character,  had  shown  much 
concern  for  the  horse  when  he  was  first  hurt,  should  betray  no 
feeling  at  this  painful  abandonment  of  the  poor  animal. 

"  Why  Frank  be  sorry  ?"  said  he  in  reply ;  "  when  de  jumbie- 


144  THE    GIFT. 

back  slip  at  night,  him  as  well  as  oder  hoss  all  come  back  to  de 
same  place,  'cept  lame  hoss  too  be  turned  into  jumbie-spirit,  and 
den  me  see  him  ebery  day,  same,  same  hoss,  see  him  standing 
den  jes  as  now,  and  alway  see  him  de  same  hour." 

We  now  rode  forward  rapidly ;  our  horses'  feet  had  become 
used  to  the  soil,  and,  notwithstanding  the  heat  of  the  *  Indian 
summer'  weather,  had  accomplished  a  very  long  stage,  a  full 
day's  journey  in  fact,  while  the  sun  was  still  several  hours  high. 
We  ought,  we  surely  ought  to  be  near  our  destination.  I  con- 
fessed this  to  my  friend,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say,  that  as  I 
did  so,  and  at  the  same  time  acknowledged  that  my  prairie 
experience  was  utterly  at  fault  in  discovering  any  signs  of 
thicket,  grove  or  timber-land  in  the  distance,  I  began  to  share 
more  or  less  the  superstitious  terrors  which  did  unquestionably 
blanch  his  cheek.  The  reader,  wholly  inexperienced,  perhaps, 
in  life  in  the  wilderness,  smiles  at  the  weakness.  Yet  the  famous 
Colonel  Crockett,  as  gallant  a  bush-ranger  as  perished  among 
the  hardy  Texans  who  fought  and  fell  at  the  Alamo,  has  left  it 
upon  record,  that  a  man,  when  first  lost  in  the  forest,  will  almost 
persuade  himself  that  the  sun  rises  and  sets  in  a  different  quarter 
of  the  heavens  than  is  his  wont !  and  on  a  prairie — when  lost 
on  a  prairie — with  no  one  object  to  fix  and  determine  the  use 
of  the  external  senses,  the  bewilderment  of  imagination  is  far 
more  startling — the  vagaries  of  reason  far  more  eccentric.  The 
lost  wanderer  is  left  wholly  to  his  imagination,  and  he  can 
reason  only  upon  the  possibilities  which  it  suggests.  For  three 
days  I  had  gazed  only  upon  limitless  monotony ;  for  three  days 
I  had  heard  no  sound  save  those  that  came  from  our  little  caval- 
cade— yes !  I  forgot ;  on  the  first  morning,  and  soon  after  we 
got  out  of  sight  of  the  timber-land,  a  solitary  raven  rose  scream- 
ing from  the  carcass  of  a  roasted  wolf,  who  had  probably  pe- 
rished while  trying  to  escape  the  prairie  fire  a  month  earlier. 
But  this  recollection  only  served  to  remind  me  that  if  we  were 
again  approaching  the  forest,  more  of  these  birds  ought  to  be 
visible ;  for  the  carrion  wolves  and  deer  upon  which  they  feed 


A    PRAIRIE    JUMBIE.  145 

are  most  often  smothered  by  the  smoke  of  a  burning  prairie, 
on  the  verge  of  the  timber-swamps,  to  which  they  are  flying  for 
refuge. 

"  Upon  my  soul,  this  is  an  ugly  business,"  said  my  friend, 
after  a  few  moments'  painful  musing.  "  Can  you  see  nothing 
— no  one  sign  in  the  air  or  on  the  earth — nothing  to  form  a 
conjecture  how  we  may  be  situated  ?" 

"  From  the  earth,  most  assuredly  nothing ;  you  know  as  well 
as  I  do  that  there  are  no  running  streams  on  these  upland 
prairies  to  guide  conjecture  in  any  way — and  as  for  the  air, 
the  sun,  as  you  have  seen,  goes  down  very  differently  over  a 
prairie  from  what  he  does  elsewhere  ;  but  that  Indian  summer 
mist  which  is  now  gathering  about  him  makes  it  impossible  to 
detect  any  of  the  peculiarities  which  mark  his  setting  over  a 
broken  country." 

"  Good  God !  what  will  become  of  us  ?  what  shall  we  do  ? 
what  can  you  think  of?  what  suggestion  have  you  1  For  me, 
my  brain  is  dizzy  with  looking  ceaselessly  upon  this  changeless 
monotony — suggesting  ever  the  one  same  idea  of  poor  Frank's 
jumbie." 

We  had  halted  apparently  still  in  the  centre  of  the  boundless 
plain — looking  forward,  there  was  nothing  to  reach — looking 
back,  there  were  no  vestiges  of  our  having  accomplished  any 
thing!  "Still,"  I  thought,  "while  there  is  nothing  here  to 
guide  one,  there  is  also  nothing  to  mislead.  If  our  course  was 
laid  prpperly  in  the  first  instance,  we  may  still  clear  the  waste ; 
if  that  course  was  laid  wrongly,  it  is  yet  in  the  present  extre- 
mity most  wise  to  pursue  it — we  must  go  on — on — and  our  only 
hope  is  in  the  ability  still  to  keep  this  straightforward  direction." 

I  explained  this  to  my  friend  much  in  the  same  language  I 
have  used  here.  He  simply  nodded  significantly,  and  pressed 
forward  in  silence.  The  whole  proposition  was  so  plain  to  him 
that  it  needed  no  further  demonstration.  A  drizzling  rain  which 
soon  after  set  in  did  not  prevent  us  from  keeping  the  saddle, 
until  the  vapour  became  so  thick  that  we  could  not  see  twenty 

13* 


146  THE    GIFT. 

yards  in  advance ;  when,  it  being  also  now  near  night,  we  were 
compelled  to  encamp. 

Wet,  weary,  and  dispirited,  I  can  conceive  few  things  more 
disheartening  than  our  present  plight.  My  friend,  who  was  of 
a  fine  game  spirit,  attempted  to  jest  both  about  our  present  dis- 
comforts and  the  almost  appalling  prospects  of  the  morrow. 
But  the  terror  of  poor  Frank,  who  besought  him  not  to  speak 
with  such  levity  of  *  Massa  Jumbie,'  soon  made  him  desist  ; 
a  deep  sigh  that  came  from  the  breast  of  his  master,  as  he 
turned  away  from  his  supper  without  touching  it,  betrayed  to 
me  the  pardonable  affectation  of  the  gallant  fellow.  My  poor 
friend,  I  believe  slept  little  that  night,  and  his  nerves  must 
have  been  much  shaken  by  watching  for  him  to  exhibit  the 
spectacle  I  witnessed  in  the  morning.  The  sudden  cries  of 
Frank  had  made  me  start  from  my  sleep ;  I  looked  up — my 
friend  had  raised  himself  on  one  hand,  and  with  pallid  fea- 
tures and  eyes  almost  starting  from  their  sockets,  was  gazing 
before  him. 

"  Oh,  massa,  massa — I  told  um  so — here  we  be — oh  Gorra 
Mighty  hab  marcy  on  us — here  we  be  slipped  back,  slipped 
clean,  clean  back  to  jes  where  we  started  from — we  and  de  hoss 
— yes,  de  lame  hoss  an  all — and  all  got  to  do  de  same  over 
again  ebery  day — ebery  day  till  kingdom  come." 

I  looked,  and  true  enough,  we  were  almost  under  the  shadow 
of  a  tall  wood  exactly  like  that  we  had  left  four  mornings  before. 
Nay,  more,  the  lame  horse  stood  there  on  its  verge  as  if  he 
had  slipped  back  as  Frank  had  prophesied. 

"  It  is  a  jumbie,  by  heaven  !"  burst  at  last  from  the  lips  of 
my  West  India  friend.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  expression  of 
honest  awe,  of  desperate  conviction,  upon  his  features  as  he 
uttered  the  words ;  and  should  his  eye  chance  to  fall  upon  these 
pages,  I  know  that  he  will  forgive  this  allusion  to  its  ludicrous 
effect  upon  me,  with  the  same  frank  generosity  that  he  did  the 
uncontrollable  merriment  with  which  I  made  the  woods  ring  on 
the  instant. 


A    PRAIRIE    JUMBIE.  147 

The  reader  has,  I  know,  already  solved  the  mystery,  and 
discovered  that  we  had  unconsciously  gained  the  woodlands 
under  cover  of  the  mist  of  the  preceding  evening — that  we  had, 
in  a  word,  attained  the  farther  bourne  of  the  prairie,  in  the  very 
hour  we  nearly  despaired  of  ever  reaching  it.  It  was  not,  how- 
ever, till  we  had  mounted,  penetrated  some  hundred  yards  into 
the  forest,  and  saw  the  smoke  of  a  settler's  cabin  curling  up 
among  the  trees,  that  poor  bewildered  Frank  could  be  persuaded 
he  was  yet  fairly  off  the  jumbie-back. 


THE  NIGHT-BLOOMING  CERES. 

BY  H.  T.  TUCKERMAN. 

How  coyly  thou  the  golden  hours  dost  number ! 

Not  all  their  splendour  can  thy  love  beguile; 
Vainly  the  morning  zephyrs  fan  thy  slumber, 

And  noon's  rich  glory  woos  thee  for  a  smile. 

For  thou  dost  blossom  when  cool  shadows  hover, 
And  dews  are  falling  through  the  dusky  air  ; 

When  with  new  fervour  dreams  the  happy  lover, 
And  winds  grow  solemn  with  the  voice  of  prayer. 

While  all  around  thee  earth's  bright  things  are  sleeping, 
Gay  lilies  fade  and  droops  the  crimson  rose, 

Fresh  is  the  vigil  thou  alone  art  keeping, 

And  sweet  the  charms  thy  virgin  leaves  disclose. 

Thus  in  the  soul  is  deep  love  ever  hidden, 

Thus  noble  minds  will  fondly  shun  the  throng, 

And  at  their  chosen  time,  start  forth  unbidden, 
With  peerless  valour  or  undying  song. 

Thus  the  true  heart  its  mystic  leaves  concealing, 
Folds  them  serenely  from  the  world's  broad  glare 

Its  treasured  bliss  and  inmost  grief  revealing 
To  the  calm  starlight  and  the  dewy  air. 


THE    NIGHT-BLOOMING    CERES.  149 

Blest  is  thy  lesson,  vestal  of  the  flowers, — 
Not  in  the  sunshine  is  our  whole  delight ; 

Some  joys  bloom  only  in  life's  pensive  hours, 
And  pour  their  fragrance  on  the  breeze  of  night. 


PETER  PETROLIUS, 

OR  THE  MAN  THAT  WAS  BORN  IN  THE  CROOKED  STREET. 
BY  EDMUND  C.  WATMOUGH. 

THERE  are  so  many  approved  methods  of  commencing  a  story 
that  an  unpractised  writer  is  doubtful  which  to  follow.  If,  in 
the  present  instance  there  is  any  deviation  from  the  established 
and  well-trodden  path,  it  must  be  attributed  more  to  the  uncon- 
trollable and  wandering  disposition  of  the  author,  rather  than 
any  premeditated  intention  upon  his  part  to  swerve  from  esta- 
blished rules. 

It  is  questionable,  after  all,  if  that  primitive  and  familiar 
preface,  *  once  upon  a  time  there  lived,'  is  not  the  legitimate 
and  truly  classic  commencement  of  every  narrative,  and  that  all 
other  modes  are  but  the  vain  affectations  of  the  practised  writer. 
That  simple  and  natural  beginning  brings  one  right  up  to  the 
work — facts  plainly  expressed,  and  with  the  fewest  possible 
words.  No  stretching  out  an  elastic  idea  to  the  full  extent  of  its 
adhesive  qualities,  and  then  manipulating  and  patting  up  the 
crumbs  and  fragments  into  prettily  rounded  periods,  until  the 
original  idea,  if  one  ever  existed,  is  lost,  like  the  cloth  coat  of  a 
courtier,  in  the  profusion  of  gaudy  tin  foil  and  brocade.  How- 
ever, as  more  depends  upon  the  quantity  than  quality  of  the 
matter,  the  original  simplicity  of  such  an  opening  might  be 
objectionable. 


PETER    PETROLIUS.  151 

One  or  two  original  ideas  being  considered  a  vast  outlay,  the 
writer  would  be  compelled  to  use  up  his  slender  materials 
without  those  charming  amplifications  by  which  a  poverty  of 
thought  is  disguised  under  a  redundancy  of  words. 

A  process  which  may  be  compared  to  the  art  used  by  the 
Parisian  cook  of  the  Spanish  king  in  the  wars  of  the  Peninsula, 
to  serve  his  master  with  a  royal  feast  when  a  famine  prevailed. 
The  seasonings  and  sauces  effectually  disguised  the  material, 
and  many  .who  tasted  with  the  impression  that  they  were  par- 
taking of  wholesome  food,  were  not  a  little  disgusted  when  they 
discovered  that  beneath  all  the  flummery  reposed  the  remains  of 
a  donkey. 

The  desultory  reader  is  too  often  served  up  with  literary 
feasts  from  the  like  materials,  but  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  either 
the  food  is  perfectly  congenial  with  his  own  habits  of  mind 
and  body,  or  the  fashionable  reputation  of  the  cook  silences  all 
inquiry. 

The  taste  of  the  day  is  decidedly  melo-dramatic,  which  in 
fact  is  nothing  more  than  a  prevailing  appetite  for  feasts  like  the 
one  described,  and  the  adornments  and  seasonings  are  deemed 
to  be  '  graphic'  accomplishments,  in  the  modern  acceptation  of 
the  word.  If  the  candidate  for  popular  favour  be  not  a  *  truly 
graphic  writer,'  no  matter  how  pure  his  language,  original, 
entertaining,  and  instructive  his  thoughts,  he  fails  to  attract 
attention,  or  what,  perhaps,  is  to  him  of  more  importance,  his 
works  will  not  sell. 

It  is  curious,  therefore,  to  observe  the  various  shifts  and 
devices  assumed  by  these  caterers  to  a  morbid  appetite  for  the 
melo-dramatic — and  to  the  uninitiated,  a  passing  notice  may 
not  only  be  instructive  but  amusing :  with  a  determination,  how- 
ever, upon  our  own  part,  to  pursue  a  course  in  accordance  with 
the  humble  character  of  the  story,  and  the  simplicity  of  its 
moral. 

It  is  generally  deemed  of  great  importance  to  introduce  the 
hero  or  heroine  under  the  most  favourable  circumstances.  With 


152  THE    GIFT. 

the  conviction  that  first  impressions  go  a  great  way,  thereby 
establishing  an  interest  in  their  favour,  which  will  tempt  the 
reader  to  follow  their  fortunes  through  a  world  of  nonsense  until 
the  final  consummation  of  the  story  by  the  usual  climax,  death 
or  matrimony. 

A  landscape  view,  for  instance,  with  a  combination  of  the 
grand  and  picturesque — heightened  by  the  glowing  tints  of  a 
rising  or  a  setting  sun,  the  latter  to  be  preferred,  as  early  rising 
has  not  connected  with  it  any  very  agreeable  associations,  there 
always  being  at  those  chilly  hours  a  natural  craving  for  break- 
fast, and  it  has  long  since  been  established  amongst  all  story- 
tellers and  novelists  that  there  is  no  sentiment  in  hot  coffee, 
rolls,  eggs,  and  butter. 

Having  finished  off  this  description,  with  a  due  proportion  of 
purple  mountains  and  dark  ravines,  and  a  quantum  sufficit  of 
rocks,  piled  up  into  all  sorts  of  grotesque  shapes,  the  '  naked 
majesty'  of  those  natural  beauties  must  be  enveloped  in  a  veil, 
usually  *  flung  over  the  landscape,'  through  which  '  the  last 
beams  of  the  setting  sun,  struggle  faintly,'  and  as  that  '  lumi- 
nary' retires  to  rest,  he  tips  a  wink  to  the  sad  scene,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  keep  up  your  spirits ;  I'll  be  with  you  to-morrow 
punctually,  and  no  mistake." 

The  hero  is  then  tableau'd  in  the  most  effective  manner,  and 
in  the  description  of  his  person,  more  especially  that  portion 
which  generally  flourishes  between  the  shirt  collar  and  hat-band, 
commonly  called  '  the  human  face  divine,'  the  prominent  fea- 
tures are  *  chiselled'  out.  His  forehead  expansive  as  a  parade 
ground  for  legions  of  thought  to  drill  and  exercise.  The  hair  of 
his  head  curls  naturally,  so  does  his  upper  lip,  and  often  as 
vehemently  as  the  little  dog's  tail,  which  destroyed  the  utility  of 
his  hind  legs. 

With  such  materials  he  goes  smoothly  on  through  an  octavo 
of  enthusimusey,  and  wins  a  world  of  applause  for  himself  as  a 
'  graphic  writer,'  and  no  small  profit  by  the  sale  of  his  work. 
But,  as  our  hero  is  a  very  commonplace  character,  with  neither 


PETER    PETROLIUS.  153 

castles  nor  chateaux  to  figure  in,  a  republican  and  citizen  of  a 
land  so  new  that  ghosts  and  such  like  interesting  people,  have 
not  yet  deemed  us  worthy  of  a  visit,  we  shall  be  content  to  com- 
mence our  story  in  a  plain  way,  without  any  of  the  clap-traps 
so  often  and  successfully  resorted  to. 

Peter  Petrolius  was  the  hopeful  son  and  heir  of  a  very  re- 
spectable old  lady  who  flourished  for  many  years  in  Dock  Street, 
Philadelphia,  the  only  crooked  one  there,  and  which  certain 
Gothamites,  much  to  the  astonishment  of  the  loving  brothers 
thereof,  affirm  to  be  the  prettiest  part  of  the  whole  place. 

This  estimable  woman  had  supplied  several  generations  with 
molasses  candy  and  other  savoury  matters,  and  would  still  have 
continued  to  dispense  those  sweet  favours,  but  remorseless  death 
laid  his  cold  hand  upon  her,  and  she  obeyed  the  summons  with 
quiet  resignation,  leaving  our  hero  the  undisputed  heir  to  all  her 
estate,  real,  personal,  and  mixed.  The  first  was  represented  by  a 
one-story  wooden  tenement,  then  fast  crumbling  into  decay.  The 
second,  those  well-known  habiliments,  a  cap  and  gown,  familiar 
to  every  schoolboy;  and  the  third,  the  remnant  of  the  last 
boiling  of  that  compound  by  which  she  had  acquired  so  much 
reputation  and  a  comfortable  subsistence  during  her  widowhood. 

We  forbear  recording  the  particulars  of  our  hero's  early  life, 
from  the  time  his  first  obstreperous  cry  was  heard  in  Dock  Street, 
till  he  arrived  at  years  of  manhood,  though  no  doubt  they  had  a 
great  influence  upon  his  character  and  subsequent  fortunes. 

The  habits  of  the  boys  of  that  day  differed  materially  from 
those  of  the  present  generation.  Then,  it  was  never  considered 
particularly  infamous  to  play  marbles  with  a  sweep,  nor  to 
4  shinny  on  your  own  side,'  the  better  part  of  a  summer's  day, 
in  that  open  lot,  on  the  boundaries  of  which  flourished  both  the 
cow  and  the  horse-market ;  and  not  unworthy  of  the  ambitious 
youth  even  to  ride  a  '  scrub  race'  on  that  ancient  and  fashionable 
course,  between  Walnut  and  Spruce  Streets,  and  the  Potter's 
Field  on  one  side,  with  its  thousands  of  queer  gravestones  and 
green  hillocks — the  deep  meandering  creek  and  mysterious  brick 

14 


154  THE    GIFT. 

enclosure  in  the  centre,  with  its  broken-down  gates,  and  the 
ancient  weeping  willow;  and  on  the  other,  the  long,  narrow, 
open  lot  with  smoother  surface, — the  general  play-ground.  If 
the  affectionate  mother  of  our  hero  could  now  revisit  that  place 
as  was  her  daily  custom  in  pursuit  of  her  darling  Pete — the  old 
lady  would  be  puzzled  to  identify  the  spot  so  well  known  to  every 
one  some  *  thirty  years  syne.'  The  creek,  with  its  high  crum- 
bling banks,  through  which  occasionally  protruded  the  end  of  a 
coffin,  is  now  a  graveled  walk  shaded  by  tall  forest  trees.  The 
tombstones,  that  looked  like  spectres  in  the  moonlight — the 
gigantic  willow  within  that  mysterious  enclosure  upon  the  hill, — 
the  tall  and  ancient  poplars,  that  stood  like  sentinels  round  that 
populous  city  of  the  dead,  are  all  gone,  and  have  given  place  to 
Washington  Square,  with  its  verdant  plats  and  groves  and  broad 
promenades.  The  reader  will  perceive  from  this  brief  notice  of 
bygone  scenes,  and  the  habits  of  the  youth  of  that  day,  that 
Peter's  ambition  was  not  directed  to  literary  pursuits : — though 
the  renowned  Talbot  Hamilton  was  assiduous  in  his  amiable 
endeavours  to  cultivate  the  hidden  inspirations  of  his  scholars 
by  a  liberal  and  energetic  application  of  the  «  rattan'  to  a  very 
tender  and  susceptible  part  of  the  body,  which  he  deemed  the 
medium  of  all  intelligence,  and  through  which  he  endeavoured 
to  infuse  the  elementary  principles  of  every  science.  Peter 
received  from  this  benevolent  gentleman  an  uncommon  share  of 
his  attention  in  that  respect,  but  it  appeared  to  have  no  other 
effect  than  to  elicit  from  our  hero  sounds  more  remarkable  for 
strength  than  harmony. 

So  much  for  our  hero's  parentage,  juvenility,  and  birth-place ; 
in  which  the  reader  may  possibly  discover  some  connexion  with 
his  subsequent  career,  something  sinuous  and  crooked  like  Dock 
Street,  and  a  good  deal  at  variance  with  the  straightforward 
habits  of  the  citizens  of  that  rectangular  rectilineous  city  of 
brotherly  love. 

The  proceeds  of  his  estate,  both  '  real,  personal,  and  mixed? 
were  soon  dissipated : — the  last  he  liberally  shared  with  several 
of  his  favourite  companions.  He  was  now  thrown  upon  his  own 


PETER    PETROLIUS.  155 

resources  for  a  livelihood.  It  became  apparent  from  some  never- 
failing  symptoms,  that  the  time  for  exertion  had  arrived : — an 
uncomfortable  sensation  in  the  epigastric  region,  occasioned  by  a 
vacuum  abhorrent  to  nature,  and  most  particularly  to  Peter,  to 
whom  the  former  had  bestowed  an  appetite  of  no  ordinary  power. 
His  hat  had  long  since  departed  from  its  original  shape,  the 
crown  moving  upon  a  hinge,  the  lid  flapping  gracefully  upon  his 
shoulders — and  a  very  equivocal  pair  of  pantaloons,  imposed 
upon  him  the  necessity  for  immediate  action,  and  if  an  important 
incident  had  not  opportunely  occurred,  it  is  not  impossible,  that 
our  hero  might  have  retired  from  this  world  and  its  vanities  into 
the  peaceful  cloisters  of  Moyamensing. 

A  distant  relation  of  his  mother's,  who  for  many  years  had 
lived  in  apparent  poverty  in  one  of  the  populous  alleys  of 
Southwark,  died  possessed  of  large  sums  of  money,  which  were 
found  secreted  in  his  humble  dwelling.  Peter  became  the  right- 
ful heir  to  all  this  treasure,  and  no  sooner  was  he  perfectly 
satisfied  of  the  truth  of  this  unlooked-for  good  fortune,  than  a 
decided  change  took  place,  both  in  his  conduct  and  appearance. 

He  was  now  considered  a  respectable  man,  who  had  a  stake  in 
society,  but  what  to  Peter  was  of  equal  importance,  one  for  his 
dinner.  Men  now  respectfully  touched  their  hats  to  Mr.  Petrolius, 
to  whom  but  a  few  weeks  before  they  would  not  have  tossed  a 
copper.  He  was  spoken  of  as  a  '  clever  fellow ;'  it  was  of  little 
importance  to  the  world  how  he  had  acquired  wealth,  whether  by 
accident  or  by  meritorious  exertion.  He  was  rich,  which  em- 
braced every  virtue,  and  Peter  began  to  think  that  the  motto  of 
his  native  State  might  have  been  abbreviated  to  that  simple  and 
expressive  monosyllable,  l  cash?  for  with  it  he  found  himself 
instantly  possessed  of  l  virtue,  liberty,  and  independence.' 

We  shall  here  pass  over  a  period  of  Peter's  life,  and  resume 
it  again  when  marked  by  another  sensible  change  in  his  fortunes 
and  character. 

He  had  during  that  period,  however,  moved  in  what  he  consi- 
dered a  fashionable  circle,  and  affected  the  airs  of  a  distingue  of 


156  THE    GIFT. 

the  first  water,  wore  a  large  ring  upon  a  very  apoplectic  finger, 
upon  which  was  engraved  his  family  crest,  for  Peter  had  disco- 
vered that  he  was  the  last  representative  upon  earth  of  a  noble 
race,  and  as  his  good  mother,  during  her  lifetime,  enjoyed  the 
title  of  *  the  Queen  of  Candy,'  her  hopeful  progeny  was,  in  truth, 
better  entitled  to  this  little  heraldic  display  than  many  other 
good  citizens  of  this  republic  affected  with  the  same  amiable 
weakness,  though  there  were  people  malicious  enough  to  insinu- 
ate that  two  mint-sticks  '  rampant'  upon  a  field  of  gingerbread 
*  slantant'  would  be  more  appropriate  than  the  helmet  and  dag- 
ger. His  apartments  were  adorned  with  the  portraits  of  one  or 
two  ancient  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  past  century,  purchased 
at  auction.  Also,  some  antiquated  chairs,  with  high  backs  and 
bandy  legs,  culled  out  of  the  same  asylum  for  decayed  furniture, 
which  Peter  was  in  the  habit  of  remarking  '  were  cherished  as 
memorials  of  his  ancestors.'  His  poor  mother,  could  she  have 
peeped  into  the  parlour  of  Peter,  would  no  doubt  be  more  asto- 
nished than  flattered  at  the  brocaded  representatives  of  herself 
and  spouse,  whose  untimely  demise  was  attributable  to  a  cold 
caught  during  the  shad  season.  It  was  always  a  consolation  to 
the  relict  of  that  worthy  man,  that  though  he  was  cut  off  in  the 
very  flower  of  life  and  utility,  yet  his  struggle  was  neither  a 
tedious,  expensive,  nor  a  painful  one,  and  with  many  a  sigh,  she 
expressed  her  meek  submission  to  the  decrees  of  Providence. 
"  It  is  all  right,"  she  would  say,  "  for  if  he  had  lived  till  water- 
melon time,  he  would  have  sunk  under  the  oyster  season,"  for 
such  was  the  good  man's  admiration  of  those  bivalves,  that 
nothing  could  restrain  him  from  the  incessant  proclamation  of 
their  silent  virtues  through  the  streets,  from  sunrise  till  long 
after  midnight, — though  she  privately  confessed  to  some  of  her 
acquaintances,  that  the  encomiums  generally  bestowed  by  her 
spouse  upon  the  c  lovely'  objects  of  his  solicitude  were  not  very 
complimentary  to  herself. 

Peter,  however,  had  buried  all  these  reminiscences  with  his 
mother,  and  from  the  constant  habit  of  deceiving  others,  had 


PETER    PETROLIUS.  157 

worked  himself  into  a  belief  that  he  really  was  what  he  pre- 
tended to  be,  and  that  the  old  gentleman  of  Pewter-Platter 
Alley,  the  vender  of  old  iron  scraps  and  other  rarities,  the 
wooden  tenement  of  his  mother,  and  the  peripatetic  proclama- 
tions of  his  revered  father  of  piscatorial  renown,  were  dreams, 
nothing  more.  And  when  these  unpleasant  fancies  peeped  into 
the  cells  of  his  imagination,  he  slammed  to  the  doors  of  thought 
against  the  unwelcome  intruders,  and  in  the  glass  found  more 
pleasing  reflections,  in  the  contemplation  of  the  '  imperial'  upon 
his  chin,  and  the  '  moustache'  upon  his  lip. 

Day  after  day  passed  away  in  the  profitable  amusements  of  a 
young  man  without  any  business ;  frequenting  of  taverns  and 
theatres,  in  winter,  strutting  about  the  streets  with  both  hands 
thrust  into  the  pockets  of  a  bag-coat,  and  in  summer,  whirling 
over  a  dusty  road  in  one  of  those  vehicles  wherein  the  driver 
appears  to  have  the  axles  run  through  his  hips,  at  the  tail  of  a 
fast  trotting  horse  dashing  along  at  the  rate  of  two  minutes 
forty-five  seconds  per  mile,  to  that  rural  retreat  for  gentlemen  of 
his  caste,  where  innocence  flourishes  under  the  sign  of  the  Lamb. 
Our  hero,  as  the  reader  will  perceive  from  his  education,  was 
not  likely  to  surprise  the  world  with  any  evidence  of  literary 
genius.  Yet  at  heart  he  was  a  good  fellow,  and  frank  and  candid 
in  the  expression  of  his  sentiments,  the  latter  quality,  perhaps, 
he  inherited  from  his  mother, — and  though  on  the  road  to  ruin, 
the  inevitable  consequence  of  a  career  of  daily  folly  incident  to 
his  pursuits,  he  maintained  some  respect  for  the  opinion  of  the 
world,  and  at  times  meditated  a  reform.  These  wholesome 
meditations  were  interrupted  by  an  incident  as  eventful  in  his 
life  and  as  influential  upon  his  fortunes,  as  the  sudden  acqui- 
sition of  his  wealth. 

Most  of  his  property  had  been  invested  in  bank  stock :  the 
sudden  prostration  and  ruin  of  the  one  in  which  his  fortunes 
were  invested,  utterly  impoverished  Peter,  and  upon  waking  up 
after  a  debauch  in  which  he  had  faithfully  followed  the  classic 
precept,  *  six  cups  to  Moevia,  to  Justina  seven,'  he  found  him- 
self a  bankrupt  in  fortune  and  character.  No  one  could  be 

14* 


158  THE    GIFT. 

worse  prepared  for  such  an  emergency  than  our  estimable 
youth.  He  that  cannot  bear  prosperity  like  a  man,  in  adversity 
is  sure  to  act  the  part  of  a  coward.  In  vain  did  he  struggle  to 
keep  up  appearances.  There  was  no  incident  in  his  life  of 
brief  prosperity  to  mitigate  his  follies,  and  they  who  pay  no 
respect  to  position  unless  founded  upon  the  solid  basis  of  meri- 
torious actions,  were  alike  regardless  of  his  fate  with  those  who 
had  bowed  to  his  money.  With  the  former  he  could  claim 
neither  fellowship  nor  sympathy,  by  the  latter  he  was  avoided 
and  despised  as  destitute  of  that  quality  which  alone  gave  him 
consequence,  and  with  whom  poverty  is  esteemed  a  crime. 
Instead  of  manfully  putting  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel,  he 
meditated  in  gloomy  despondency  over  his  change  of  fortunes, 
seeking  by  mean  subterfuge  to  maintain  those  luxuries  which 
had  impaired  his  health  and  weakened  his  energies.  Toy  after 
toy  was  parted  with,  and  the  proceeds  of  his  fast  trotting  horse 
were  melting  away  at  a  rate  almost  equal  to  the  speed  of  that 
renowned  animal.  It  were  vain  to  pursue  our  hero  step  by  step 
as  he  descended  from  his  high  estate  to  that  neutral  ground 
between  a  decayed  gentleman  and  a  decided  loafer.  At  last 
his  necessities  became  so  great,  and  the  demands  of  some  of  his 
creditors  so  imperious,  that  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  crave 
a  temporary  assistance  from  some  of  those  numerous  friends  who 
so  often  had  partaken  of  his  profusion  and  hospitality.  And 
here  Peter  soon  found  the  truth  of  the  Spanish  proverb,  '  Del 
peso  perdito  se  sciente  el  valor?  *  If  you  would  know  the  value 
of  a  dollar,  try  to  borrow  one.'  To  all  whom  he  applied  he 
was  refused  assistance ;  some  had  just  parted  with  the  very  last 
cent — many,  very  many,  had  a  note  to  pay  on  that  very  day, — 
some  felt  deep  mortification  that  they  had  just  invested  all  their 
spare  cash ;  if  known  but  an  hour  sooner,  he  could  have  had  it 
with  pleasure.  Others  lectured  him  upon  his  past  career,  and 
tendered,  with  great  liberality,  any  quantity  of  wholesome  advice. 
In  despair,  he  shrunk  away  to  his  silent  chamber,  to  meditate 
over  his  fortunes  and  curse  the  selfish  cold-heartedness  of  the 
crowd  he  had  mingled  with. 


PETER    PETROLIUS.  159 

He  felt  that  he  was  slowly  sinking  into  the  condition  of  one 
Jacob  Spunk,  *  a  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown,'  but 
whose  habits  and  character  were  perfectly  congenial  with  every 
thing  that  was  disreputable,  one  of  those  mysterious  personages 
who  manage  to  exist  and  occasionally  to  indulge  in  extrava- 
gances, without  any  ostensible  means  of  gaining  an  honest  sub- 
sistence. He  even  meditated  a  consultation  with  that  estimable 
citizen,  with  a  hope  of  gleaning  from  him  a  little  learning  upon 
the  abstruse  science  of  bettering  a  hopeless  condition,  and  at  the 
very  moment  he  was  about  to  depart  in  pursuit  of  that  Sybarite, 
he  was  not  a  little  astonished  and  pleased  to  observe  him  briskly 
passing  before  the  window,  through  which  he  was  now  gazing 
with  lack-lustre  eye. 

"  Our  Jake,"  for  such  was  the  amiable  title  this  distinguished 
gentleman  had  acquired,  was,  to  the  astonishment  of  Peter, 
dressed  off  in  garments  of  fine  cloth.  The  threadbare  coat 
with  whitened  elbows,  and  glazed  pantaloons  tightly  strapped 
down  to  a  cracked  and  well-worn  boot,  no  longer  distinguished 
him  as  a  '  seedy'  gentleman  of  equivocal  fortunes.  There  was 
a  swaggering  sort  of  a  '  clear  out  of  my  way,'  which  indicated 
the  man  of  means — and  as  if  to  remove  all  possibility  of  doubt 
upon  that  important  particular,  a  tinkling  sound  was  heard  from 
the  recesses  of  one  of  his  pockets  into  which  this  worthy  had 
thrust  a  hand,  and  where  his  fingers  were  playing  an  accom- 
paniment upon  certain  pieces  of  silver,  in  perfect  harmony  with 
his  contented  air,  and  to  the  astonishment  and  envy  of  many  to 
whom  the  sound  was  more  familiar  than  the  touch.  At  first, 
this  phantom,  for  he  doubted  the  reality,  perfectly  paralysed  the 
sense  of  Peter,  but  when  assured  that  his  eyes  were  *  not  made 
the  fools  o'  the  other  senses  or  else  worth  all  the  rest' — he 
hastened  to  greet  his  old  acquaintance,  and  to  express  his  sur- 
prise and  pleasure  at  the  wonderful  transformation. 

"  Well,"  said  our  hero,  after  making  a  careful  and  minute 
survey  of  the  person  of  Mr.  Spunk,  which  scrutiny  that  gentle- 
man *  stood  up  to'  with  wonderful  composure,  continuing  to 
draw  from  the  deep  recesses  of  his  habiliments  those  tinkling 


160  THE    GIFT. 

tones  before  spoken  of,  whistling  the  while  a  stave  or  two  from 
that  favourite  song  which  so  graphically  describes  a  moonlight, 
and  the  repose  of  a  popular  animal  upon  a  rail — "  Well,  Jake, 
how  are  you  ?"  again  ejaculated  our  hero,  extending  his  hand  at 
the  same  time ;  he  of  the  music  ceased  those  performances,  and 
then  taking  off  his  hat,  commenced  polishing  that  article  by 
slowly  and  skilfully  drawing  an  extended  silk  handkerchief  over 
its  surface,  at  the  same  time  relieving  the  mind  of  the  interrogator 
from  all  uneasiness  as  to  the  perfect  salubrity  of  his  own  body 
with  a  reciprocation  of  the  civility  by  an  inquiry  after  the  health 
of  Peter.  These  little  preliminaries  being  terminated,  much  to 
the  satisfaction  of  both  parties,  and  a  pause  succeeding,  Spunk 
resumed  the  jingling  of  l  the  hard  stufF  as  he  called  it,  and 
was  about  to  execute  a  stave  of  his  favourite  air  with  variations, 
when  he  was  interrupted  with  another  question  from  Mr.  Petro- 
lius  to  the  effect,  "  if  any  distant  relation  of  the  Spunk  family 
had  lately  paid  a  debt  to  nature,  (the  only  one  they  ever  did  pay) 
by  which  he  had  become  unexpectedly  the  heir  to  a  long  hidden 
treasure  ?"  To  this  direct  appeal  for  a  solution  of  the  mysterious 
transformation  which  appeared  to  overwhelm  Mr.  Petrolius,  the 
ci-devant  loafer  made  no  other  reply  than  repeated  shakes  of  his 
head  in  time  with  the  tune  which  he  still  whistled  forth  with 
peculiar  taste  and  execution,  regarding  our  hero  the  while 
with  a  steady  and  serious  gaze,  as  if  to  say,  '  you're  wide 
of  the  mark,  try  it  again.'  "  Well,  then,"  said  Peter,  impa- 
tiently, "  how  is  it  ? — where  did  you  get  it  ? — how  was  it  done  ?" 
Whereupon  Mr.  Spunk  applied  his  left  thumb  to  the  tip  of  his 
nose,  which  feature  having  a  natural  tendency  to  turn  up,  by  the 
compression  became  more  than  commonly  exalted:  holding  it 
there  for  a  moment  he  gyrated  his  fingers  about  in  a  very  pleas- 
ing and  imposing  manner,  intimating  thereby  plainly  and  intel- 
ligibly to  the  keen  perception  of  his  companion,  that  it  was  not 
only  a  secret,  but  a  dreadful  one,  intended  to  be  locked  up  in  his 
own  breast,  which  he  was  pleased  to  remark  was  a  perfect 
asbestos  fire-proof  chest  for  such  matters.  However,  whether 
from  ancient  friendship,  or  from  motives  of  pride,  or  from  some 


PETER    PETROLIUS.  161 

other  principle  which  it  may  not  be  worth  the  reader's  while 
to  fathom,  he  relented,  and  frankly  declared  that  he  had  the 
honour  to  hold  an  office  under  the  Government  of  the  United 
States. 

"  Hold  a  what  ?"  said  Peter. 

"  An  office." 

"  And  pray,  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  inquire  how  much  does  the 
United  States  of  America  pay  you  annually  for  your  services?" 

"  Oh,  how  much  ?  not  much  considering  my  merits, — about  a 
thousand  a-year.  But  I  tell  you,  sir,  I  worked  hard  for  it.  Day 
and  night  for  a  year  did  I  shout,  and  bawl,  and  fight,  and  drink. 
Oh,  but  I  worked  hard  for  it."  And  that  worthy  gentleman  gazed 
at  the  gutter  with  an  air  of  abstraction,  and  shook  his  head  mourn- 
fully. "  Why,  sir,"  suddenly  starling  from  his  reverie  he  seized 
hold  of  one  of  the  buttons  of  Peter's  coat,  and  very  impressively 
said  :  "  Why,  sir,  I  lived  upon  crackers  and  brandy  and  smoked 
sausages  and  sheep'a  tongues  for  the  last  six  months — I  worked 
hard  for  it."  Upon  this  theme  Mr.  Spunk  was  particularly 
eloquent,  and  in  a  short  time  had  entirely  emptied  his  chest  of 
all  the  secret  history  of  his  brilliant  political  career,  and  how  he 
had  ultimately  been  rewarded  for  his  meritorious  services  by  the 
gift  from  the  President  of  a  comfortable  office,  which  in  a  mo- 
ment had  worked  that  pleasing  transformation  so  astonishing  to 
his  friend.  They  parted  with  a  determination  to  renew  their 
former  intimacy,  the  one  to  the  perquisites  of  his  office,  the  other 
to  meditate  upon  the  best  mode  of  bettering  a  hopeless  condition, 
without  fulfilling  that  decree  of  Providence,  which  imposes  upon 
all  « labour,  and  the  sweat  of  the  brow.'  Peter  Petrolius  carefully 
compared  his  own  history  and  abilities  with  those  of  Jacob 
Spunk,  and  in  his  own  estimation,  nothing  of  self-esteem  was 
lost  by  the  comparison.  In  several  of  the  political  requisites  he 
thought  he  might  excel  his  rival ;  forced,  however,  to  concede  to 
that  exemplary  youth  a  decided  superiority  in  those  particular 
accomplishments,  wherein  eating  and  drinking  were  the  most 
prominent.  He  was  confirmed  in  his  determination  to  follow  the 
example  of  Jake,  when  he  reflected  that  the  labour,  which  was 


162  THE    GIFT. 

perhaps  exaggerated  by  that  meritorious  individual,  after  all,  was 
but  a  variation  of  the  life  of  a  man  with  no  honest  mode  of  mak- 
ing a  livelihood. 

It  would  be  instructive  and  amusing  to  pursue  our  hero,  step 
by  step,  through  the  various  gradations  of  his  first  introduction 
to  popular  notice  till  his  final  establishment  in  the  favour  of  his 
political  party.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  say  that  Peter's  patriotism 
was  of  the  most  exalted  kind,  founded  upon  his  own  sincere 
declarations  of  perfect  disinterestedness  and  devotion  to  the  public 
good.  He  presented  the  pleasing  picture  of  a  man  without  suffi- 
cient resolution  to  conquer  his  own  evil  passions  and  wicked 
propensities,  drafting  them  daily  for  the  benefit  of  mankind, 
every  sentence  overflowing  with  sentiments  of  virtue  and  pa- 
triotism. 

Days,  weeks,  nay  months  slipped  away  in  this  dissolute  and 
unprofitable  career,  and  after  an  intensely  exciting  canvass,  in 
which  oceans  of  brandy  were  drank  by  both  parties,  our  hero, 
with  some  hundred  compatriots  of  his  caste  and  calibre,  had 
the  peculiar  satisfaction,  one  cold  drizzling  day,  to  give  nine 
cheers  for  the  triumph  of  their  candidate,  and  then  stagger  home 
to  an  uncomfortable  abode,  if  they  had  any,  made  more  soli- 
tary and  desolate  by  previous  habits  of  rowdyism  and  intem- 
perance. 

Now,  the  straightforward  course  of  Mr.  Petrolius  was  to 
apply  his  energies  to  some  business  or  trade,  by  which,  aided  by 
industry  and  perseverance,  he  might  not  only  have  secured  to 
himself  some  reputation  but  perhaps  a  competency  for  life,  but 
i  he  always  chose  the  crooked  path,  in  character  with  the  street 
which  had  the  honour  of  being  his  birth-place. 

A  vast  deal  of  precious  time  had  been  wasted ;  neither  his 
health,  reputation,  or  circumstances  had  been  improved,  and  he 
discovered  after  some  painful  glances  at  the  past,  and  some  mis- 
givings of  the  future,  that  he  was  precisely  where  he  started, 
with  the  prospect  of  another  conflict  in  which  he  would  be 
opposed  by  some  of  those  very  friends  with  whom  he  had 
been  linked  in  the  struggle.  But  it  was  now  too  late  to  recede ; 


PETER    PETROHUS.  163 

the  many  opportunities  offered  at  different  times  had  been  ne- 
glected ;  he  had  chosen  what  he  had  thought  to  be  a  flowery  path, 
but,  alas  !  he  soon  perceived  to  his  sorrow,  that  it  was  choked 
with  weeds  and  thorns  and  a  thousand  unforeseen  obstacles. 
After  procuring  testimonials  of  the  most  irresistible  kind  as  to  his 
political  worth,  he  departed  for  the  seat  of  government  with 
these  credentials,  under  the  impression  that  his  presence  would 
elicit  a  reward  commensurate  with  his  fame  and  services. 

Peter  found  upon  his  arrival  at  that  famous  city  of  distances, 
that  his  pilgrimage  was  not  so  promising  as  anticipated,  and 
that  he  was  but  one  of  some  thousands  of  applicants  for  the 
same  kind  of  favours. 

A  direct  appeal  to  the  chief  magistrate  would  be  met  by  a 
polite  denial,  or  else  an  evasive  answer  couched  in  the  most 
courteous  terms.  It  was  therefore  necessary  to  be  fortified  with 
an  introduction  from  some  one  known  to  the  ruling  powers  as 
influential.  Now  Spunk's  wife's  uncle  was  brother  to  a  post- 
master, to  whom  a  member  of  Congress  was  deeply  indebted, 
and  an  intimation  from  that  gentleman  that  the  Spunk  family 
required  an  appointment  for  a  worthy  distant  relative,  was  imme- 
diately attended  to;  and  Jake  promptly  walked  into  a  comfortable 
place,  without  the  necessity  of  any  testimonials  as  to  character 
and  capacity,  which  it  would  have  bothered  that  worthy  man  to 
procure.  But  our  hero  had  no  friend  at  court,  nothing  but  his 
credentials,  signed  by  some  hundreds  of  people  as  insignificant 
as  himself,  or  by  a  few  well-known  politicians,  who  affixed  their 
names  to  any  memorial,  happy  at  the  opportunity  it  afforded 
them  of  publishing  by  that  means  their  own  importance. 

He  wandered  over  that  cold  and  uncomfortable  pile  of  stone 
and  mortar,  the  Capitol ;  at  one  time  listening  to  long  harangues 
in  the  House  about  questions  in  which  he  could  have  no  possible 
interest,  the  completion  of  a  harbour  at  Green  Bay,  a  thousand 
miles  from  any  place,  or  a  post-route  upon  the  Arkansas,  varied 
by  an  occasional  roll-call,  in  which  some  hundreds  of  names 
were  repeated  by  the  clerk  in  a  stentorian  voice  and  with 
amazing  volubility — then  wandering  round  the  rotunda,  either 


164  THE    GIFT. 

gazing  at  the  pictures,  or  listening  to  the  music  of  the  man  seated 
upon  a  chair  near  the  eastern  door,  who  warbled  all  day  a  tune 
which  captivated  the  country  people  with  its  pleasing  echoes. 

Or  from  the  galleries  of  the  Senate  chamber  he  counted  the 
bald  heads  of  those  dignitaries  of  the  nation,  whose  wisdom 
appeared  to  confound  the  spectators  with  admiration.  From 
the  library,  through  whirling  clouds  of  dust,  he  had  a  perspective 
view  of  the  executive  mansion,  commonly  called  the  White 
House,  in  which  resided  so  comfortably  the  individual  for  whom 
he  had  been  hurraing  for  a  twelvemonth,  and  from  whom  he 
now  felt  himself  almost  as  far  removed  as  when  he  '  shinnied 
on  his  own  side'  in  the  Potter's  Field  of  Philadelphia. 

Day  after  day  passed  trudging  his  dusty  way  between  the 
Capitol  and  the  White  House,  or  standing  for  hours  in  the  ante- 
chamber of  a  great  man,  to  take  his  turn  in  the  crowd  of 
hungry  expectants.  And  when  at  last  admitted,  precluded  from 
urging  his  suit,  by  the  presence  of  some  fifty  people  from  all 
parts  of  the  world,  bowing  and  scraping  and  shaking  of  hands, 
in  the  most  cordial  and  satisfactory  manner. 

At  last,  through  the  interference  of  a  member,  he  obtained  a 
private  interview  with  the  great  man,  who  inquired  most  parti- 
cularly after  Peter's  health  and  that  of  all  his  family,  to  whom 
he  was  well  known,  much  to  the  astonishment  of  our  hero, 
whose  last  relative  on  earth  was  represented  by  that  worthy 
lady  whose  demise  we  have  before  recorded. 

The  propitious  moment  having  arrived,  Mr.  Petrolius  very 
respectfully  urged  his  suit,  and  eloquently  stated  the  several 
services  he  had  rendered  the  country  during  a  very  '  arduous 
campaign.' 

No  sooner  was  the  real  object  of  Peter's  visit  made  known, 
than  the  distinguished  object  of  his  past  solicitude  became  cold 
and  serious ;  our  hero  saw  the  change  as  it  passed  over  his  fea- 
tures, *  like  a  summer's  cloud,'  and  felt  a  corresponding  damp 
upon  his  own  spirits.  He  was  quickly  relieved,  however,  from 
this  painful  uncertainty  by  the  agreeable  information  that  there 
was  no  vacancy  at  present,  but  that  so  soon  as  one  occurred  he 


PETER    PETROLIUS.  165 

should  be  remembered,  and  with  another  cordial  shake  of  the 
hand,  that  distinguished  man  begged  Peter  to  remember  him  to 
all  his  friends.  He  departed  under  this  comfortable  assurance, 
which  made  his  prospects  particularly  pleasant  when  he  re- 
flected that  «  few  die,  and  none  resign.' 

With  *  melancholy  steps  and  slow'  he  crossed  over  that  cold 
vestibule,  casting  a  parting  glance  at  the  porter  who  bowed 
him  out  so  unceremoniously,  and  such  was  the  desperation  of 
feelings  and  disappointment,  and  though  at  first  aspiring  to  a 
place  of  some  responsibility  and  profit,  he  even  envied  that 
worthy  man  the  station  he  enjoyed,  though  it  appeared  to  be  no 
sinecure.  He  saw,  however,  nothing  apoplectic  in  that  gentle- 
man's appearance,  nothing  that  could  warrant  the  possibility  of 
an  immediate  public  bereavement  in  that  department,  and  with  a 
sigh,  acknowledged  that,  even  should  there  occur  such  a  provi- 
dential interference  in  his  behalf,  some  weeks  would  transpire 
before  the  opportunity  might  occur  to  prefer  his  claim  for  the 
station. 

And  this  is  the  brief  history  of  nine  cases  out  often,  or  rather 
ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred,  who  seek  for  office  as  a  means  of 
subsistence.  A  miserable  dependence  at  best,  with  the  liability, 
when  obtained,  of  being  cast  adrift  upon  the  world  to  make  room 
for  one  whose  merits  rested  upon  the  same  honourable  foun- 
dations. 

Accidentally  meeting  with  a  schoolfellow  from  whom  he  had 
been  separated  for  many  years,  and  who  expressed  some  interest 
in  his  behalf  from  some  ancient  associations  in  which  the  rattan 
of  Talbot  Hamilton  had  a  part,  they  both  having  largely  parti- 
cipated in  the  inflictions  of  that  well-remembered  instrument, 
Peter  unburthened  his  heart  to  his  associate,  and  with  unfeigned 
sorrow  declared  his  past  follies  and  his  determination  to  pursue  a 
course  the  very  opposite  of  the  past  in  every  particular.  His 
companion,  so  far  from  rejecting  his  friendship  or  rebuking  him 
with  unkind  words,  promised  him  every  aid  within  his  humble 
power.  With  neither  friends,  nor  money,  nor  influence,  by  sheer 
industry  and  perseverance,  he  had  worked  his  way  through 

15 


166  THE    GIFT. 

every  difficulty,  and  earned  a  handsome  fortune,  and  in  the 
domestic  circle  of  this  worthy  young  man,  Peter  beheld  every 
comfort  and  happiness  which  honourable  exertion  and  a  con- 
tented mind  invariably  brings  with  it. 

It  is  with  pleasure  we  record  that,  cheered  by  the  example  of 
his  patron,  he  conquered,  by  degrees,  the  habits  of  idleness 
which  had  almost  become  a  part  of  his  nature,  and  though 
painfully  irksome  at  first,  it  soon  became  a  source  of  pleasure, 
and  every  day  he  learned  the  truth  of  that  best  of  precepts  from 
a  father  to  his  son, 

"  Look  thou  character, — 
This  above  all, — To  thine  own  self  be  true; 
And  it  must  follow,  as  the  night  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man." 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  HARVEY  BIRCH. 


BY  ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 

I  KNOW  not  if  thy  noble  worth 
My  country's  annals  claim, 

For  in  her  brief,  bright  history, 
I  have  not  read  thy  name. 

I  know  not  if  thou  e'er  didst  live, 

Save  in  the  vivid  thought 
Of  him  who  chronicled  thy  life, 

With  silent  suffering  fraught. 

Yet  in  thy  history  I  see 

Full  many  a  great  soul's  lot, 

Who  joins  that  martyr-army's  ranks, 
That  the  world  knoweth  not. 

Who  cannot  weep  "  melodious  tears" 

For  fame  or  sympathy, 
But  who  in  silence  bear  their  doom, 

To  suffer  and  to  die. 

For  whom  no  poet's  harp  is  struck, 
No  laurel  wreath  is  twined  ; 

Who  pass  unheard,  unknown  away, 
And  leave  no  trace  behind. 


168  THE    GIFT. 

Who  but  for  their  unwavering  trust 
In  Justice,  Truth,  and  God, 

Would  faint  upon  their  weary  way, 
And  perish  by  the  road. 

Truth,  Justice,  God  !     Oh,  mighty  faith 
To  bear  us  up  unharmed  ! 

The  gates  of  hell  may  not  prevail 
Against  a  soul  so  armed. 


THE  GIANT'S  COFFIN, 

OR    THE    FEUD    OF    HOLT    AND    HOUSTON. 

A  TALE  OF  REEDY  RIVER. 
BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  YEMASSEE,"  ETC. 

CHAPTER  I. 

IN  1766,  the  beautiful  district  of  Greenville,  in  South  Carolina, 
— which  is  said  to  have  had  its  name  in  consequence  of  the 
verdant  aspect  which  it  bore  in  European  eyes, — received  its 
first  white  settlers  from  Virginia  and  Pennsylvania.  Among 
these  early  colonists  were  the  families  of  Holt  and  Houston, — 
represented  by  two  fearless  borderers,  famous  in  their  day  as 
Indian  hunters ; — men  ready  with  the  tomahawk  and  rifle,  but 
not  less  distinguished,  perhaps,  for  the  great  attachment  which 
existed  between  them.  Long  intercourse  in  trying  periods — the 
habit  of  referring  to  each  other  in  moments  of  peril — constant 
adventures  in  company — not  to  speak  of  similar  tastes  and 
sympathies  in  numerous  other  respects,  had  created  between 
them  a  degree  of  affection,  which  it  would  be  difficult,  perhaps, 
to  find  among  persons  of  more  mild  and  gentle  habits.  Each 
had  his  family — his  wife  and  little  ones — and,  traversing  the 
mountain  paths  which  lie  between  Virginia  and  the  Carolinas, 
they  came  in  safety  to  the  more  southern  of  the  last  named 
colonies.  Charmed  with  the  appearance  of  the  country,  they 
squatted  down  upon  the  borders  of  Reedy  River,  not  very  far 
from  the  spot  now  occupied  by  the  pleasant  town  of  Greenville. 

15* 


170  THE    GIFT. 

Family  division,  for  the  present,  there  was  none.  Congeniality 
of  tastes,  the  isolation  of  their  abodes,  the  necessity  of  concen- 
tration against  the  neighbouring  Indian  nation  of  Cherokees, 
kept  them  together ;  and  continuing  the  life  of  the  hunter,  rather 
than  that  of  the  farmer,  John  Holt  and  Arthur  Houston  pursued 
the  track  of  bear,  deer,  and  turkey,  as  before,  with  a  keenness 
of  zest  which,  possibly,  derived  its  impulse  quite  as  much  from 
attachment  to  one  another,  as  from  any  great  fondness  for  the 
pursuit  itself. 

Meanwhile,  their  families,  taking  fast  hold  upon  the  soil, 
began  to  flourish  together  after  a  fashion  of  their  own.  Flourish 
they  did,  for  the  boys  thrived,  and  the  girls  grew  apace.  But 
tradition  has  preserved  some  qualifying  circumstances  in  this 
history,  by  which  it  would  seem  that  their  prosperity  was  not 
entirely  without  alloy.  The  sympathies  between  Mesdames 
Holt  and  Houston  were  not,  it  appears,  quite  so  warm  and 
active  as  those  which  distinguished  the  intercourse  of  their 
respective  husbands.  Civil  enough  to  one  another  in  the  pre- 
sence of  the  latter,  they  were  not  unfrequently  at  *  dagger- 
draw'  in  their  absence.  The  husbands  were  not  altogether 
ignorant  of  this  condition  of  things  at  home,  but  they  had  their 
remedy ;  and  there  is  little  doubt  that,  like  some  other  famous 
sportsmen  of  my  acquaintance,  they  became  happy  hunters  only 
when  there  was  no  longer  any  hope  that  they  could  become 
happy  husbands.  Now,  as  quarrels  most  commonly  owe  their 
spirit  and  excellence  to  the  presence  of  spectators,  we  may 
assume  that  some  portion  of  the  virulence  of  our  two  wives 
underwent  diminution  from  the  absence  of  those  before  whom 
it  might  hope  to  display  itself  with  appropriate  eloquence ;  and 
the  wrath  of  the  dames,  only  exhibited  before  their  respective 
children,  was  very  apt  to  exhale  in  clouds,  and  slight  flashes, 
and  an  under-current  of  distant  thunder.  Unhappily,  however, 
the  evil  had  consequences  of  which  the  weak  mothers  little 
thought,  and  the  feud  was  entailed  to  the  children,  who,  instead 
of  assimilating,  with  childish  propensities,  in  childish  sports, 
took  up  the  cudgels  of  their  parents,  and  under  fewer  of  the 


THE  GIANT'S  COFFIN.  171 

restraints, — arising  from  prudence,  and  the  recognition  of  mutual 
necessities, — by  which  the  dames  were  kept  from  extreme  issues, 
they  played  the  aforesaid  cudgels  about  their  mutual  heads,  with 
a  degree  of  earnestness  that  very  frequently  rendered  necessary 
the  interposition  of  their  superiors. 

The  miserable  evil  of  this  family  feud  fell  most  heavily  upon 
the  natures  of  the  two  eldest  boys,  one  a  Holt,  the  other  a 
Houston, — spoiling  their  childish  tempers,  impressing  their  souls 
with  fearful  passions,  and  embittering  their  whole  intercourse. 

At  this  period  young  Houston  has  reached  the  age  of  fourteen, 
and  Holt  of  twelve  years  of  age.  The  former  was  a  tall,  slen- 
der, and  very  handsome  youth ;  the  latter  was  short,  thickset, 
and  of  rather  plain,  unpromising  appearance.  But  he  was 
modest,  gentle,  and  subdued  in  temper,  and  rather  retiring  and 
shy.  The  former,  on  the  contrary,  was  bold,  vain,  and  vio- 
lent— the  petted  boy  of  his  mother,  insolent  in  his  demands, 
reckless  in  his  resentments — a  fellow  of  unbending  will,  and  of 
unmeasured  impulses.  He  had  already  gone  forth  as  a  hunter 
with  his  father ;  he  had  proved  his  strength  and  courage ;  and 
he  longed  for  an  opportunity  to  exercise  his  youthful  muscle 
upon  his  young  companion,  with  whom,  hitherto, — he  himself 
could  not  say  how  or  why — his  collisions  had  fallen  short  of  the 
extremities  of  personal  violence.  For  such  an  encounter  the 
soul  of  young  Houston  yearned ;  he  knew  that  Holt  was  not 
wanting  in  strength — he  had  felt  that  in  their  plays  together ; 
but  he  did  not  doubt  that  his  own  strength,  regularly  put  forth, 
was  superior. 

One  day  the  boys  had  gone  down  together  to  the  banks  of 
Reedy  River  to  bathe.  There  they  met  a  deformed  boy  of  the 
neighbourhood,  whose  name  was  Acker.  In  addition  to  his 
deformity,  the  boy  was  slightly  epileptic,  and  such  was  his 
nervous  sensibility,  that  merely  to  point  a  finger  at  him  in 
mischief  was  apt  to  produce  in  him  the  most  painful  sensations. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  the  pranks  of  his  playmates,  carried  too  far, 
had  thrown  him  into  convulsions.  This  unhappy  lad  had  but 
just  recovered  from  a  sickness  produced  by  some  such  prac- 


172  THE    GIFT. 

tices,  and  this  fact  was  well  known  to  the  boys.  Disregarding 
it,  however,  John  Houston  proceeded  to  amuse  himself  with  the 
poor  boy.  Holt,  however,  interposed,  and  remonstrated  with  his 
companion,  but  without  effect.  Houston  persisted  until,  fairly 
tired  of  the  sport,  he  left  the  diseased  boy  in  a  dreadful  condi- 
tion of  mental  excitement  and  bodily  exhaustion.  This  done,  he 
proceeded  to  bathe. 

Meanwhile,  with  that  sort  of  cunning  and  vindictiveness  which 
often  distinguishes  the  impaired  intellect  of  persons  subject  to 
such  infirmities,  the  epileptic  boy  watched  his  opportunity,  and 
stole  down,  unobserved,  to  the  river's  edge,  among  the  rocks, 
where  the  boys  had  placed  their  clothes.  There  he  remained  in 
waiting,  and  when  John  Houston  appeared  to  dress  himself,  and 
was  stooping  down  for  his  garments,  the  epileptic  threw  himself 
violently  upon  him,  bore  him  to  the  ground,  and,  grasping  a 
heavy  rock,  would  have  beaten  out  the  brains  of  the  offending 
lad,  but  for  the  timely  assistance  of  Arthur  Holt,  who  drew  off 
the  assailant,  deprived  him  of  his  weapon,  and  gave  his  comrade 
a  chance  to  recover,  and  place  himself  in  a  condition  to  defend 
himself. 

But  Acker,  the  epileptic  boy,  was  no  longer  in  a  condition  to 
justify  the  hostility  of  any  enemy.  His  fit  of  frenzy  had  been 
succeeded  by  one  of  weeping,  and,  prostrate  upon  the  ground, 
he  lay  convulsed  under  most  violent  nervous  agitation.  While 
he  remained  in  this  state,  John  Houston,  who  had  now  par- 
tially dressed  himself,  furious  with  rage,  at  the  indignity  he  had 
suffered,  and  the  danger  he  had  escaped,  prepared  to  revenge 
himself  upon  him  for  this  last  offence ;  and,  but  for  Arthur  Holt, 
would,  no  doubt,  have  subjected  the  miserable  victim  to  a  severe 
beating.  But  the  manly  nature  of  Arthur  resented  and  resisted 
this  brutality.  He  stood  between  the  victim  and  his  persecutor. 

"  You  shall  not  beat  him,  John — it  was  your  own  fault.  You 
begun  it." 

"  I  will  beat  you  then,"  was  the  reply. 

"  No  !  you  shall  not  beat  me,  either." 

«  Ha !     Take  that !" 


173 

The  blow  followed  on  the  instant.  A  first  blow,  and  in  the 
eye,  too,  is  very  apt  to  conclude  an  ordinary  battle.  But  this 
was  to  be  no  ordinary  battle.  Our  young  hero  was  stunned  by 
the  blow; — the  fire  flashed  from  the  injured  eye; — but  the 
unfairness  of  the  proceeding  awakened  a  courage  which  had  its 
best  sources  in  the  moral  nature  of  the  boy ;  and,  though  thus 
taken  at  advantage,  he  closed  in  with  his  assailant,  and,  in  this 
manner,  lessened  the  odds  at  which  he  otherwise  must  have 
fought  with  one  so  much  taller  and  longer  in  the  arms,  than 
himself.  In  the  fling  that  followed,  John  Houston  was  on  his 
back.  His  conqueror  suffered  him  to  rise. 

"  Let  us  fight  no  more,  John,"  he  said  on  relaxing  his  hold  ; 
"  I  don't  want  to  fight  with  you." 

The  answer,  on  the  part  of  the  other,  was  a  renewal  of  the 
assault.  Again  was  he  thrown,  and  this  time  with  a  consi- 
derable increase  of  severity.  He  rose  with  pain.  He  felt  his 
hurts.  The  place  of  battle  was  stony  ground.  Fragments  of 
rock  were  at  hand.  Indignant  and  mortified  at  the  result  of  the 
second  struggle — aiming  only  at  vengeance — the  furious  boy 
snatched  up  one  of  these  fragments,  and  once  more  rushed  upon 
his  companion.  But  this  time  he  was  restrained  by  a  third 
party — no  less  than  his  own  father — who,  unobserved,  had 
emerged  from  the  neighbouring  thicket,  and,  unseen  by  the 
combatants,  had  witnessed  the  whole  proceeding.  The  honour- 
able nature  of  the  old  hunter  recoiled  at  the  conduct  of  his  son. 
He  suddenly  took  the  lad  by  the  collar,  wrested  the  stone  from 
him,  and  laying  a  heavy  hickory  rod  some  half  dozen  times 
over  his  shoulder,  with  no  moderate  emphasis,  sent  him  home, 
burning  with  shame,  and  breathing  nothing  but  revenge. 


CHAPTER  II. 

In  the  space  of  five  years  after  this  event,  the  two  fathers 
yielded  their  scalps  to  the  Cherokees,  and  upon  the  young  men, 
now  stretching  to  manhood,  devolved  the  task  of  providing  for 


174  THE    GIFT. 

their  families.  The  patriarchal  sway  was  at  an  end,  and,  with 
it,  all  those  restraining  influences  by  which  the  external  show  of 
peace  had  been  kept  up.  It  was  to  be  a  household  in  common 
no  longer.  But  a  short  time  had  elapsed,  when  a  domestic 
storm  of  peculiar  violence  determined  the  dames  to  separate  for 
ever ;  and,  while  the  family  of  Holt,  under  the  management  of 
young  Arthur,  remained  at  the  old  settlement  near  Reedy  River, 
the  Houstons  proceeded  to  Pan's  Mountain,  some  seven  miles 
off, — in  the  neighbourhood  of  which  may  be  found,  at  this  day, 
some  traces  of  their  rude  retreat.  The  settlement  at  Reedy 
River,  meanwhile,  had  undergone  increase.  New  families  had 
arrived,  and  the  first  foundations  were  probably  then  laid  of  the 
flourishing  village  which  now  borders  the  same  lovely  stream. 
The  sons  grew  up,  but  not  after  the  fashion  of  their  fathers.  In 
one  respect  only  did  John  Houston  resemble  his  parent — he  was 
a  hunter.  Arthur  Holt,  on  the  other  hand,  settled  down  into  a 
methodical,  hard-working  farmer,  who,  clinging  to  his  family 
fireside,  made  it  cheerful,  and  diffused  the  happiest  influences 
around  it.  He  grew  up  strong  rather  than  handsome,  good 
rather  than  conspicuous;  and,  under  his  persevering  industry 
and  steady  habits,  his  mother's  family,  now  his  own,  reached  a 
condition  of  comfort  before  unknown.  The  family  of  young 
Houston,  by  which  we  mean  his  mother,  sister,  and  a  younger 
brother,  did  not  flourish  in  like  degree.  Yet  Houston  had 
already  acquired  great  reputation  as  a  hunter.  In  the  woods  he 
seemed  literally  to  follow  in  his  father's  footsteps.  He  had  his 
accomplishments,  too.  He  was  certainly  the  handsomest  youth 
in  all  the  settlements  ;  of  a  bold  carriage,  lofty  port,  free,  open, 
expressive  countenance,  tall  of  person  and  graceful  of  movement. 
It  was  some  qualification  of  these  advantages  that  the  morale 
of  John  Houston  was  already  something  more  than  questionable 
in  the  public  opinion  of  the  settlement.  His  tastes  were  vicious, 
— his  indulgences  in  strong  drink  had  more  than  once  subjected 
him  to  humiliating  exposures,  but  as  yet  they  had  produced 
caution  rather  than  dislike  among  his  associates.  Among  the 
women,  however,  they  were  not  suspected  to  exist,  or  if  known 


175 

or  suspected,  weighed  very  little  against  the  graces  of  a  fine 
person,  a  dashing,  easy  carriage,  and  a  free  '  gift  of  the  gab,' 
which  left  him  quite  as  unrivalled  among  the  debaters  as  he  was 
among  the  dancers. 

Among  the  families  settled  down  upon  Reedy  River,  was  that 
of  Marcus  Hey  wood,  a  Virginia  cavalier,  a  fine  hearty  gentle- 
man of  the  old  school,  polished  and  precise,  who  had  seen  better 
days,  and  was  disposed  very  much  to  insist  upon  them.  He 
brought  with  him  into  the  little  colony  a  degree  of  taste  and 
refinement,  of  which,  before  his  coming,  the  happy  little  neigh- 
bourhood knew  nothing ;  but,  unhappily  for  all  parties,  he  sur- 
vived too  short  a  time  after  his  arrival,  to  affect  very  favourably, 
or  very  materially,  the  sentiments  and  manners  of  those  about 
him.  He  left  his  widow,  a  lady  of  fifty,  and  an  only  daughter 
of  sixteen,  to  lament  his  loss.  Mrs.  Heywood  was  a  good 
woman,  an  excellent  housewife,  a  kind  matron,  and  all  that  is 
exemplary  at  her  time  of  life ;  but  Leda  Heywood,  her  daughter, 
was  a  paragon ; — in  such  high  terms  is  she  described  by  still- 
worshiping  tradition,  and  the  story  that  comes  down  to  us, 
seems,  in  some  respects,  to  justify  the  warmth  of  its  eulogium. 
At  the  period  of  her  father's  death,  Leda  was  only  sixteen ;  but 
she  was  tall,  well-grown,  and  thoughtful  beyond  her  years. 
The  trying  times  in  which  she  lived — frequent  travel — the  ne- 
cessity of  vigilance — the  duties  which  naturally  fall  upon  the 
young  in  new  countries — conspired  to  bring  out  her  character, 
and  to  hurry  to  maturity  an  intellect  originally  prompt  and 
precocious.  Necessity  had  prompted  thought  into  exercise,  and 
she  had  become  acute,  observant,  subdued  in  bearing,  modest 
in  reply,  gentle,  full  of  womanly  solicitude,  yet  so  calm  in  her 
deportment  that,  to  the  superficial  observer,  she  wore  an  aspect, 
— quite  false  to  the  fact, — of  great  coldness  and  insensibility. 
Her  tastes  were  excellent;  she  sang  very  sweetly — and  when 
you  add  to  the  account  of  her  merits,  that  she  was  really  very 
lovely,  a  fair,  blue-eyed  graceful  creature, — you  need  not  won- 
der that  one  day  she  became  a  heroine!  A  heroine!  poor 


176  THE    GIFT. 

Leda !     Bitterly,  indeed,  must  she  have  wept  in  after  times,  the 
evil  fortune  that  doomed  her  to  be  a  heroine ! 

But  Leda  was  a  belle  before  she  became  a  heroine.  This 
was,  perhaps,  the  more  unfortunate  destiny  of  the  two.  She 
was  the  belle  of  Reedy  River,  called  by  hunter,  and  shepherd, 
and  farmer,  '  the  blue-eyed  girl  of  Reedy  River,'  to  whom  all 
paid  an  involuntary  tribute,  to  whom  all  came  as  suitors,  and, 
with  the  rest,  who  but  our  two  acquaintances,  John  Houston 
and  Arthur  Holt.  At  first  they  themselves  knew  not  that 
they  were  rivals,  but  the  secret  was  one  of  that  sort  which 
very  soon  contrived  to  reveal  itself.  It  was  then  that  the  ancient 
hate  of  John  Houston  revived,  in  all  its  fury.  If  Arthur  Holt 
was  not  conscious  of  the  same  feelings  exactly,  he  was  yet  con- 
scious of  an  increased  dislike  of  his  old  companion.  With  that 
forbearance  which,  whether  the  fruit  of  prudence  or  timidity, 
Arthur  Holt  had  always  been  careful  to  maintain  in  his  inter- 
course with  his  former  associate,  he  now  studiously  kept  aloof 
from  him  as  much  as  possible.  Not  that  this  reserve  and  cau- 
tion manifested  itself  in  any  unmanly  weakness.  On  the  con- 
trary, no  one  could  have  appeared  more  composed  when  they 
met  than  Arthur  Holt.  It  is  true  that,  in  the  actual  presence  of 
Leda  Hey  wood,  he  was  rather  more  embarrassed  than  his  rival. 
The  reader  will  not  need  to  be  reminded  that  we  have  already 
described  him  as  being  naturally  shy.  This  bashfulness  showed 
badly  in  contrast  with  the  deportment  of  John  Houston.  If  the 
difference  between  the  manner  of  the  two  young  men,  in  ap- 
proaching their  mistress,  was  perceptible  to  herself  and  others, 
it  was  little  likely  to  escape  the  eyes  of  one  who,  like  John 
Houston,  was  rendered  equally  watchful  both  by  hate  and 
jealousy.  But,  unconscious  of  any  bashfulness  himself,  he 
could  not  conceive  the  influence  of  this  weakness  in  another. 
He  committed  the  grievous  error  of  ascribing  the  disquiet  and 
nervous  timidity  of  Arthur  Holt  to  a  very  different  origin;  and 
fondly  fancied  that  it  arose  from  a  secret  dread  which  the  young 
man  felt  of  his  rival.  We  shall  not  say  what  degree  of  influence 


THE  GIANT'S  COFFIN.  177 

this  notion  might  have  had,  in  determining  his  own  future  con- 
duct towards  his  rival. 

Some  months  had  passed  away  since  the  death  of  Colonel 
Heywood,  in  this  manner,  and  the  crowd  of  suitors  had  gra- 
dually given  way  to  the  two  to  whom  our  own  attention  has 
been  more  particularly  turned.  Events,  meanwhile,  had  been 
verging  towards  a  very  natural  crisis ;  and  the  whisper,  on  all 
hands,  determined  that  Leda  Heywood  was  certainly  engaged, 
and  to  John  Houston.  This  whisper,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
soon  reached  the  ears  of  the  man  whom  it  was  most  likely  to 
annoy. 

Arthur  Holt  could  not  be  said  to  hope,  for,  in  truth,  Leda 
Heywood  had  given  him  but  little  encouragement,  still  he  was 
not  willing  to  yield  in  despair,  for,  so  far  as  he  himself  had 
observed,  she  had  never  given  any  encouragement  to  his  rival. 
At  all  events  there  was  a  way  of  settling  the  matter,  which  the 
stout-hearted  fellow  determined  to  take  at  the  earliest  moment. 
He  resolved  to  propose  to  Leda,  a  measure  which  he  would 
sooner  have  adopted,  but  for  a  delicate  scruple  arising  from  the 
fact  that  he  had  made  himself  particularly  useful  to  her  mother, 
who,  in  her  widowhood,  and  in  straitened  circumstances,  was 
very  glad  to  receive  the  help  and  friendly  offices  of  the  young 
farmer.  These  scruples  yielded,  however,  to  the  strength  of  his 
feelings ;  and  one  evening  he  had  already  half  finished  his  toilet 
with  more  than  usual  care,  in  order  to  the  business  of  a  formal 
declaration,  when,  to  his  own  surprise  and  that  of  his  family, 
John  Houston  abruptly  entered  the  humble  homestead.  It  was 
the  first  visit  which  he  had  paid  since  the  separation  of  the  two 
families,  and  Arthur  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  had  its  particular 
object.  After  a  few  moments,  in  which  the  usual  civilities  were 
exchanged,  John  Houston,  rising  as  he  spoke,  said  abruptly  to 
Arthur — 

"  You  seem  about  to  go  out,  and  perhaps  we  may  be  walking 
in  the  same  direction.  If  so,  I  can  say  what  I  have  to  say, 
while  we're  on  the  road  together." 

"  I  am  about  to  go  to  see  Widow  Heywood." 

16 


178  THE    GIFT. 

"  Very  good  !  our  road  lies  the  same  way." 

The  tones  of  Houston  were  more  than  usually  abrupt  as  he 
spoke,  and  there  was  a  stern  contracting  of  the  brow,  and  a 
fierce  flashing  of  the  eye,  while  he  looked  upon  the  person  he 
addressed,  which  did  not  escape  the  observation  of  Arthur,  and 
excited  the  apprehensions  of  his  mother.  On  some  pretence, 
she  drew  her  son  into  her  chamber  ere  he  went  forth,  and  in 
few,  but  earnest  words,  insisted  that  John  Houston  meant  harm. 

"  If  you  will  go  with  him,  Arthur,  take  this  pistol  of  your 
father's  in  your  bosom,  and  keep  a  sharp  look-out  upon  him. 
Man  never  meant  evil  if  John  Houston  does  not  mean  it  now." 

We  pass  over  her  farther  remonstrances.  They  made  little 
impression  upon  Arthur,  but,  to  quiet  her,  he  put  the  weapon 
into  his  bosom — half  ashamed — as  he  did  so — of  a  concession 
that  seemed  to  look  like  cpwardice. 

The  two  young  men  set  out  together,  and  the  eyes  of  the 
anxious  mother  followed  them  as  long  as  they  were  in  sight. 
They  took  the  common  path,  which  led  them  down  to  the  river, 
just  below  the  falls.  When  they  had  reached  the  opposite  shore, 
and  before  they  had  ascended  the  rocks  by  which  it  is  lined, 
John  Houston,  who  had  led,  turned  suddenly  upon  his  companion, 
and  thus  addressed  him  : 

"Arthur  Holt,  you  may  wonder  at  my  coming  to  see  you 
to-day,  for  I  very  well  know  that  there  is  no  love  lost  between  us. 
You  like  me  as  little  as  I  like  you.  Nay,  for  that  matter,  I  don't 
care  how  soon  you  hear  it  from  my  lips, — 1  hate  you,  and  I 
shall  always  hate  you !  We  were  enemies  while  we  were  boys, 
— we  are  enemies  now  that  we  are  men ;  and  I  suppose  we  shall 
be  enemies  as  long  as  we  live.  Whether  we  are  to  fight  upon 
it,  is  for  you  to  say." 

Here  he  paused  and  looked  eagerly  into  the  eyes  of  his  com- 
panion. The  latter  regarded  him  steadily,  but  returned  no 
answer.  He  evidently  seemed  to  await  some  farther  explana- 
tion of  the  purpose  of  one  who  had  opened  his  business  with  an 
avowal  so  startling  and  ungracious.  After  a  brief  pause,  Houston 
proceeded : 


179 

"  The  talk  is  that  you're  a-courting  Leda  Hey  wood — that  you 
mean  to  offer  yourself  to  her — and  when  I  see  how  finely  you've 
rigged  yourself  out  for  it  to-night,  I'm  half  inclined  to  believe 
you're  foolish  enough  to  be  thinking  of  it.  Arthur  Holt,  this 
must  not  be  !  You  must  have  nothing  to  do  with  Leda  Hey  wood." 

He  paused  again — his  eyes  keenly  searching  those  of  his 
rival.  The  latter  still  met  his  glance  with  a  quiet  sort  of  deter- 
mination, which  betrayed  nothing  of  the  effect  which  the  words 
of  the  other  might  have  produced  upon  his  mind.  Houston  was 
annoyed.  Impatiently,  again,  he  spoke,  as  follows : 

"  You  hear  me, — you  hear  what  I  say  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  hear  you,  John  Houston." 

"Well!—" 

"  Well ! — you  want  my  answer,  I  suppose  1  You  shall  have 
it !  This  it  is.  If  you  are  a  madman  or  a  fool,  that'  is  no 
reason  why  I  should  not  do  as  I  please !" 

The  other  was  about  to  interrupt  him, — but  Holt  persisted  : 

"  Let  me  finish,  John  Houston.  I  heard  you  patiently — now, 
hear  me  !  I  am  no  fighting  man,  and  as  heaven  is  above  us,  I 
have  no  wish  to  quarrel ;  but  I  am  ready  to  fight  whenever  I 
can't  do  better.  As  for  being  bullied  by  you,  that  is  out  of  the 
question.  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,  and  never  was,  as  you  should 
have  known  before  this,  and  as  you  may  know  whenever  the 
notion  suits  you  to  try.  I  am  now,  this  very  moment,  going  to 
see  Leda  Hey  wood,  and  I  mean  to  ask  her  hand." 

"  That  you  shall  never  do  !"  exclaimed  the  other,  whose  pas- 
sions had  been  with  difficulty  kept  down  so  long — "  That,  by  the 
Eternal !  you  shall  never  do  !" — and  as  he  spoke,  drawing  a 
knife  from  his  belt,  he  rushed  upon  Arthur  Holt,  with  a  prompt- 
ness and  fury  that  left  the  latter  in  no  doubt  of  the  bloody  and 
desperate  purposes  of  his  foe.  But  the  coolness  of  the  young 
farmer  was  his  safeguard  in  part,  and  to  the  weapon,  so  thought- 
fully furnished  him  by  his  mother,  he  was  indebted  for  the  rest. 
He  had  kept  a  wary  watch  upon  the  movements  of  Houston's 
eye,  and  read  in  its  glance  the  bloody  purpose  of  his  soul,  the 
moment  ere  he  struck.  Retreating  on  one  side,  he  was  ready, 


180  THE    GIFT. 

when  the  latter  turned  a  second  time  upon  him,  with  his  pre- 
sented pistol. 

"  It  is  well  for  both  of  us,  perhaps,"  said  he,  quietly,  as  he 
cocked  and  held  up  the  weapon  to  the  face  of  the  approaching 
Houston,  "  that  this  pistol  was  put  into  my  hands  by  one  who 
knew  you  better  than  I  did ;  or  you  might  this  moment  have  my 
blood  upon  your  soul.  Let  us  now  part,  John  Houston.  If  you 
are  bent  to  go  from  this  to  Widow  Heywood's, — the  path  is  open 
to  you, — go  !  I  will  return  home,  and  seek  some  other  time, 
when  there's  no  chance  of  our  meeting ;  for  I  neither  wish  to 
kill  you  nor  to  be  killed  by  you.  Which  will  you  do — go  for- 
ward or  return  ?  Take  your  choice — I  yield  the  path  to  you." 

The  fury  of  the  baffled  assassin  may  be  imagined.  It  is  not  easy 
to  describe  it.  But  he  was  in  no  condition  of  mind  to  visit  Leda 
Hey  wood,  and,  after  exhausting  himself  in  ineffectual  threaten- 
ings,  he  dashed  once  more  across  the  foaming  torrents  of  Reedy 
River,  leaving  Arthur  Holt  free  to  pursue  his  way  to  the  cot- 
tage of  his  mistress.  This  he  did,  with  a  composure  which  the 
whole  exciting  scene  through  which  he  had  passed,  had  entirely 
failed  to  disturb.  Indeed,  the  events  of  this  interview  appeared 
to  have  the  effect,  only,  of  strengthening  the  resolve  of  the  young 
farmer,  for,  to  confess  a  truth,  the  good  fellow  was  somewhat 
encouraged  by  certain  expressions  which  had  dropped  from 
Houston,  in  his  fury, — to  hope  for  a  favourable  answer  to  his 
suit.  We  may  as  well  say,  in  this  place,  that  the  frenzy  of  the 
latter  had  been  provoked  by  similar  stories  reaching  his  ears  to 
those  which  had  troubled  Arthur. 

When  they  separated,  and  Arthur  Holt  went  forward  to  the 
cottage  of  Widow  Hey  wood,  it  was  with  a  new  and  most  delight- 
ful hope  awakened  in  his  bosom. 


CHAPTER  III. 

But  he  was  doomed  to  disappointment.     He  was  rejected, — 
tenderly,  but  firmly.     Leda  Heywood  was  not  for  him ;   and 


THE  GIANT'S  COFFIN.  181 

resigning  himself  to  the  denial,  with  the  instincts  of  a  man,  by 
nature  strong,  and  inured  by  trial  to  disappointments,  Arthur  Holt 
retired  from  the  field  of  Love,  to  cultivate  more  certain  fruits 
in  those  of  Ceres  and  Pomona.  Had  the  mind  of  the  young 
farmer  been  morbidly  affected,  his  mortification  would  have  been 
heightened  by  subsequent  events.  Three  days  afterwards,  Leda 
Heywood  accepted  the  hand  of  his  enemy,  John  Houston  !  Phi- 
losophers will  continue  to  seek  in  vain  for  the  cause  of  that 
strange  perversity,  by  which  the  tastes,  even  of  the  finest  women, 
are  sometimes  found  to  be  governed.  There  is  a  mystery  here 
beyond  all  solution.  The  tastes  and  sympathies  of  Leda  Hey- 
wood and  John  Houston  did  not  run  together; — there  was,  in 
reality,  no  common  ground,  whether  of  the  affections  or  of 
taste  upon  which  they  could  meet.  But  he  sought,  and  wooed, 
and  won  her ; — they  were  married ;  and,  to  all  but  Arthur  Holt, 
the  wonder  was  at  an  end  after  the  customary  limits  of  the  ninth 
day.  The  wonder,  in  this  case,  will  be  lessened  to  the  reader  if 
two  or  three  things  were  remembered.  Leda  Heywood  was 
very  young,  and  John  Houston  very  handsome.  Of  the  wild 
passions  of  the  latter  she  knew  little  or  nothing.  She  found 
him  popular — the  favourite  of  the  damsels  around  her. 

But  we  must  not  digress  in  speculations  of  this  nature.  The 
parties  were  married,  and  the  honeymoon,  in  all  countries  and 
climates,  is  proverbially  rose-coloured.  The  only  awkward  thing 
is,  that,  in  all  countries,  it  is  but  a  monthly  moon. 

The  wedding  took  place.  The  honeymoon  arose,  but  set 
somewhat  earlier  than  usual.  With  the  attainment  of  his  object, 
the  passion  of  John  Houston  very  soon  subsided,  and  we  shall 
make  a  long  story  conveniently  short  by  saying  in  this  place, 
that  it  was  not  many  weeks  before  Leda  Heywood  (or  as  we 
must  now  call  her,)  Leda  Houston,  began  to  weep  over  the  ill- 
judged  precipitation  with  which  she  had  joined  herself  to  a  man 
whose  violent  temper  made  no  allowances  for  the  feelings,  the 
sensibilities,  and  tastes  of  others.  No  longer  restrained  by  the 
dread  of  losing  his  object,  his  brutalities  shocked  her  delicacy, 

16* 


182  THE    GIFT. 

while  his  fierce  passions  awoke  her  fears.  She  soon  found 
herself  neglected  and  abused,  and  learned  to  loathe  the  con- 
nexion she  had  formed,  and  to  weep  bitter  tears  in  secret.  To 
all  this  evil  may  be  added  the  pressure  of  poverty,  which  now 
began  to  be  more  seriously  felt  than  ever.  The  hunter  life, 
always  uncertain,  was  still  more  so,  in  the  case  of  one  like  John 
Houston,  continually  led  into  indulgences  which  unfitted  him, 
sometimes  for  days  together,  to  go  into  the  woods.  Carousing 
at  the  tavern  with  some  congenial  natures,  he  suffered  himself  to 
be  little  disturbed  by  home  cares ;  and  the  privations  to  which 
his  wife  had  been  subjected  even  before  her  marriage,  were  now 
considerably  increased.  It  will  be  remembered  that  the  Widow 
Heywood  was  indebted  (perhaps  even  more  than  she  then  knew) 
to  the  generous  care  of  Arthur  Holt.  Her  resources  from  this 
quarter  were  necessarily  withdrawn  on  the  marriage  of  her 
daughter  with  Houston,  not  so  much  through  any  diminution  of 
the  young  farmer's  sympathy  for  the  objects  of  his  bounty,  as 
from  a  desire  to  withdraw  from  any  connexion  or  communion, 
direct  or  indirect,  with  the  family  of  his  bitterest  foe.  Knowing 
the  fierce,  unreasoning  nature  of  Houston,  he  was  unwilling  to 
expose  to  his  violence  the  innocent  victims  of  his  ill  habits — a 
consequence  which  he  very  well  knew  would  follow  the  dis- 
covery of  any  services  secretly  rendered  them  by  Holt.  But 
these  scruples  were  soon  compelled  to  give  way  to  a  sense  of 
superior  duty.  It  soon  came  to  his  knowledge  that  the  unhappy 
women — mother  and  daughter — were  frequently  without  food. 
John  Houston,  abandoned  to  vicious  habits  and  associates,  had 
almost  entirely  left  his  family  to  provide  for  themselves.  He 
was  sometimes  absent  for  weeks — would  return  home,  as  it 
appeared,  for  no  purpose  but  to  vent  upon  his  wife  and  mother- 
in-law  the  caprices  of  his  ill-ordered  moods,  and  then  depart, 
leaving  them  hopeless  of  his  help.  In  this  condition,  the  young 
farmer  came  again  to  their  rescue.  The  larder  was  provided 
regularly  and  bountifully.  But  Leda  knew  not  at  first  whence 
this  kindly  aid  came.  She  might  have  suspected — nay,  did 


THE  GIANT'S  COFFIN.  183 

suspect — but  Arthur  Holt  proceeded  so  cautiously,  that  his 
supplies  came  to  the  house  with  the  privity  of  Widow  Heywood 
only. 

To  add  to  Leda's  sorrows,  two  events  now  occurred  within  a 
few  months  of  each  other,  and  both,  in  less  than  sixteen  months 
after  her  marriage,  which  were  calculated  to  increase  her  bur- 
then, and  to  lessen,  in  some  respect,  her  sources  of  consolation : 
the  birth  of  a  son  and  the  death  of  her  mother.  These  events 
drew  to  her  the  assistance  of  neighbours,  but  the  most  substan- 
tial help  came  from  Arthur  Holt.  It  was  now  scarcely  possible 
to  conceal  from  Leda,  as  he  had  hitherto  done,  his  own  direct 
agency  in  the  support  of  her  family.  She  was  compelled  to 
know  it,  and,  which  was  still  more  mortifying  to  her  spirit — 
conscious  as  she  was  of  the  past — she  was  compelled  to  receive 
it.  Her  husband's  course  was  not  materially  improved  by  events 
which  had  so  greatly  increased  the  claims  and  the  necessities  of 
his  wife.  The  child,  for  a  time,  appealed  to  his  pride.  It  was 
a  fine  boy,  who  was  supposed  and  said  to  resemble  himself. 
This  pleased  him  for  a  while,  but  did  not  long  restrain  him  from 
indulgences,  which,  grateful  to  him  from  the  first,  had  now 
acquired  over  him  all  the  force  of  habit.  He  soon  disappeared 
from  his  home,  and  again,  for  long  and  weary  periods,  left  the 
poor  Leda  to  all  the  cares  and  solitude,  without  the  freedom,  of 
widowhood. 

But  a  circumstance  was  about  to  occur,  which  suddenly  drew 
his  attention  to  his  home.  Whether  it  was  that  some  meddle- 
some neighbour  informed  him  of  the  assistance  which  his  wife 
derived  from  Arthur  Holt,  or  that  he  himself  had  suddenly 
awakened  to  the  inquiry  as  to  the  source  of  her  supplies,  we 
cannot  say;  but  certain  it  is  that  the  suspicions  of  his  evil 
nature  were  aroused ;  and  he  who  would  not  abandon  his  low 
and  worthless  associates  for  the  sake  of  duty  and  love,  was 
now  prompted  to  do  so  by  his  hate.  He  returned  secretly  to  the 
neighbourhood  of  his  home,  and  put  himself  in  a  place  of  con- 
cealment. 

The  cottage  of  the  Widow  Heywood  stood  within  three  quar- 


184  THE    GIFT. 

ters  of  a  mile  of  Reedy  River,  on  the  opposite  side  of  which 
stood  the  farm  of  Arthur  Holt.  This  space  the  young  farmer 
was  accustomed  nightly  to  cross,  bearing  with  him  the  com- 
modity, whether  of  flour,  honey,  milk,  meat,  or  corn,  which  his 
benevolence  prompted  him  to  place  on  the  threshold  of  his  sad 
and  suffering  neighbour.  There  was  a  little  grove  of  chestnuts 
and  other  forest  trees,  that  stood  about  two  hundred  yards  from 
Leda's  cottage.  A  part  of  this  grove  belonged  to  their  dwelling ; 
the  rest  was  unenclosed.  Through  this  grove  ran  one  of  the 
lines  of  fence  which  determined  the  domain  of  the  cottage.  On 
both  sides  of  this  fence,  in  the  very  centre  of  this  thicket,  there 
were  steps,  gradually  rising  from  within  and  without,  to  its  top, 
— a  mode  of  constructing  a  passage  frequent  in  the  country, 
which,  having  all  the  facilities  of  a  gateway,  was  yet  more  per- 
manent, and  without  its  disadvantages.  To  this  point  came 
Arthur  Holt  nightly.  On  these  steps  he  laid  his  tribute,  whether 
of  charity  or  a  still  lingering  love,  or  both,  and  retiring  to  the 
thicket  he  waited,  sometimes  for  more  than  an  hour,  until  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  figure  of  Leda,  descending  through  the 
grove,  and  possessing  herself  of  the  supply.  This  done,  and 
she  departed ;  the  young  farmer,  sighing  deeply,  would  turn 
away  unseen,  unsuspected,  perhaps,  and  regain  his  own  cottage. 

On  these  occasions  the  two  never  met.  The  Widow  Hey- 
wood,  on  her  deathbed,  had  confided  to  her  daughter  the  secret 
of  her  own  interviews  with  Arthur,  and  he,  to  spare  himself  as 
well  as  Leda,  the  pain  of  meeting,  had  appointed  his  own  and 
her  hour  of  coming  differently.  Whether  she,  at  any  time, 
suspected  his  propinquity,  cannot  be  conjectured.  That  she 
was  touched  to  the  heart  by  his  devotion,  cannot  be  well  ques- 
tioned. 

For  five  weary  nights,  did  the  malignant  and  suspicious  eyes 
of  John  Houston,  from  a  contiguous  thicket,  watch  these  pro- 
ceedings, with  feelings  of  equal  hate  and  mortification.  Filled 
with  the  most  foul  and  loathsome  anticipations — burning  to  find 
victims — to  detect,  expose,  destroy — he  beheld  only  a  spectacle 
which  increased  his  mortification.  He  beheld  innocence  superior 


185 

to  misfortune — love  that  did  not  take  advantage  of  its  power — 
a  benevolence  that  rebuked  his  own  worthlessness  and  hardness 
of  heart — a  purity  on  the  part  of  both  the  objects  of  his  jealousy, 
'which  mocked  his  comprehension,  as  it  was  so  entirely  above 
any  capacity  of  his  own,  whether  of  mind  or  heart,  to  appre- 
ciate. 

It  was  now  the  fifth  night  of  his  watch.  He  began  to  despair 
of  his  object.  He  had  seen  nothing  to  give  the  least  confir- 
mation to  his  suspicions.  His  wife  had  appeared  only  as  she 
was,  as  pure  as  an  angel ; — his  ancient  enemy  not  less  so.  He 
was  furious  that  he  could  find  no  good  cause  of  fury,  and  weary 
of  a  watch  which  was  so  much  at  variance  with  his  habits.  He 
determined  that  night  to  end  it.  With  the  night,  and  at  the 
usual  hour,  came  the  unfailing  Arthur.  He  placed  his  bowl  of 
milk  upon  the  steps,  his  sack  of  meal,  a  small  vessel  of  butter, 
and  a  neat  little  basket  of  apples.  For  a  moment  he  lingered  by 
the  fence,  then  slipping  back,  adroitly  ensconced  himself  in  a 
neighbouring  thicket,  from  whence  he  could  see  every  move- 
ment of  the  fair  sufferer  by  whom  they  were  withdrawn.  This 
last  movement  of  the  young  farmer  had  not  been  unseen  by  the 
guilty  husband.  Indeed,  it  was  this  part  of  the  proceeding 
which,  more  than  any  thing  beside,  had  forced  upon  him  the 
conviction  that  the  parties  did  not  meet.  She  came,  and  she, 
too,  lingered  by  the  steps,  before  she  proceeded  to  remove  the 
provisions.  Deep  was  the  sigh  that  escaped  her — deeper  than 
usual  were  her  emotions.  She  sank  upon  one  of  the  steps — she 
clasped  her  hands  convulsively — her  lips  moved — she  was  evi- 
dently breathing  a  spontaneous  prayer  to  heaven,  at  the  close  of 
which  she  wept  bitterly,  the  deep  sobs  seeming  to  burst  from 
a  heart  that  felt  itself  relieved  by  this  mournful  power  of  ex- 
pression. 

Was  it  the  echo  of  her  own  sighs — her  sobs — that  came  to 
her  from  the  thicket  ?  She  started,  and  with  wild  eye  gazing 
around  her,  proceeded  with  all  haste  to  gather  up  her  little  stores. 
But  in  this  she  was  prevented.  The  answering  sigh,  the  sob, — 
coming  from  the  lips  of  his  hated  rival  and  ancient  enemy,  had 


186  THE    GIFT. 

gone,  hissingly,  as  it  were,  into  the  very  brain  of  John  Houston. 
He  darted  from  his  place  of  concealment,  dashed  the  provisions 
from  the  hands  of  his  wife,  and  with  a  single  blow,  smote 
her  to  the  earth,  while  he  cried  out  to  Holt  in  the  opposite 
thicket,  some  incoherent  language  of  insults  and  opprobrium. 
The  movement  of  the  latter  was  quite  as  prompt,  though  not  in 
season  to  prevent  the  unmanly  blow.  He  sprang  forward,  and 
grasping  the  offender  about  the  body,  lifted  him  with  powerful 
effort  from  the  earth,  upon  which  he  was  about  to  hurl  him  again 
with  all  the  fury  of  indignant  manhood ;  when  Leda  leapt  to  her 
feet,  and  interposed.  At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  very  tones 
of  which  declared  her  wish,  Arthur  released  his  enemy,  but  with 
no  easy  effort.  The  latter,  regaining  his  feet,  and  recovering  in 
some  degree  his  composure,  turned  to  his  wife  and  commanded 
her  absence. 

"  I  cannot  go — I  will  not — while  there  is  a  prospect  of  blood- 
shed," was  her  firm  reply. 

"  What !  you  would  see  it,  would  you  ?  Doubtless,  the  sight  of 
my  blood  would  delight  your  eyes  !  But  hope  not  for  it ! — Arthur 
Holt,  are  you  for  ever  to  cross  my  path,  and  with  impunity  ? 
Shall  there  never  be  a  settlement  between  us  ?  Is  the  day  of 
reckoning  never  to  come  ?  Speak  !  Shall  we  fight  it  out  here, 
in  the  presence  of  this  woman,  or  go  elsewhere,  where  there  will 
be  no  tell-tale  witnesses  ?  Will  you  follow  me  ?" 

"  Go  not, — follow  him  not, — Arthur  Holt.  Go  to  your  home ! 
I  thank  you,  I  bless  you,  for  what  you  have  done  for  me  and 
mine ; — for  the  mother  who  looks  on  us  from  heaven, — for  the 
child  that  still  looks  to  me  on  earth.  May  God  bless  you  for 
your  charity  and  goodness  !  Go  now,  Arthur  Holt — go  to  your 
own  home — and  look  not  again  upon  mine.  Once  more,  God's 
blessings  be  upon  you  !  May  you  never  want  them." 

There  was  a  warmth,  an  earnestness,  almost  a  violence  in  the 
tone  and  manner  of  this  adjuration,  so  new  to  the  usually  meek 
and  calm  deportment  of  his  wife,  that  seemed,  on  a  sudden,  to  con- 
found the  brutal  husband.  He  turned  on  her  a  vacant  look  of  asto- 
nishment. He  was  very  far  from  looking  for  such  boldness — such 


137 

audacity — in  that  quarter.  But  his  forbearance  was  not  of  long 
duration,  and  he  was  already  beginning  a  fierce  and  almost 
frenzied  repetition  of  his  blasphemies,  when  the  subdued,  but 
firm  answer  of  Arthur  Holt  again  diverted  his  attention.  The 
good  sense  of  the  young  farmer  made  him  at  once  sensible  of 
the  danger  to  the  unhappy  woman  of  using  any  language  calcu- 
lated to  provoke  the  always  too  prompt  brutality  of  the  husband, 
and  stifling  his  own  indignation  with  all  his  strength,  he  calmly 
promised  compliance  with  her  requisitions. 

"  There  are  many  reasons,"  he  added,  "  why  there  should  be 
no  strife  between  John  Houston  and  myself;  we  were  boys 
together,  our  fathers  loved  one  another;  we  have  slept  in  the 
same  bed." 

"  That  shall  not  be  your  excuse,  Arthur  Holt,"  exclaimed  the 
other  interrupting  him ;  "  you  shall  not  escape  me  by  any  such 
pretences.  My  father's  name  shall  not  shelter  your  cowardice." 

"  Cowardice !" 

"  Ay,  cowardice  !  cowardice !  What  are  you  but  an  unmanly 
coward  !" 

There  was  a  deep,  quiet  struggle,  in  the  breast  of  Arthur,  to 
keep  down  the  rising  devil  in  his  mood  ;  but  he  succeeded,  and 
turning  away,  he  contented  himself  with  saying  simply : 

"  You  know  that  I  am  no  coward,  John  Houston — nobody 
better  than  yourself.  You  will  take  good  heed  how  you  ap- 
proach such  cowardice  as  mine." 

"  Do  you  dare  me  !" 

"  Yes !" 

"  No  !  no  !"  cried  the  wife,  again  flinging  herself  between  them. 
"  Away,  Arthur  Holt,  why  will  you  remain  when  you  see  what 
I  am  doomed  to  suffer." 

"  I  go,  Leda,  but  I  dread  to  leave  you  in  such  hands.  God 
have  you  in  his  holy  keeping !" 


188  THE    GIFT. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

We  pass  over  a  period  of  eighteen  months.  In  this  time  John 
Houston  had  sold  out  the  little  cottage  near  Reedy  River,  and 
had  removed  his  wife  to  the  residence  of  his  mother  near  Pan's 
Mountain.  Why  he  had  not  adopted  this  measure  on  the  demise 
of  Widow  Heywood  is  matter  of  conjecture  only.  His  own  mother 
was  now  dead,  and  it  was  the  opinion  of  those  around,  that  it 
was  only  after  this  latter  event  that  he  could  venture  upon  a  step 
which  might  seem  to  divide  the  sceptre  of  household  authority — 
a  point  about  which  despotical  old  ladies  are  apt  to  be  very 
jealous.  His  household  was  as  badly  provided  for  as  ever,  but 
some  good  angel,  whose  presence  might  have  been  suspected, 
still  watched  over  the  wants  of  the  suffering  wife,  and  the  hollow 
of  an  ancient  chestnut  now  received  the  stores  which  we  have 
formerly  seen  placed  upon  the  rude  blocks  near  the  thicket  fence 
in  Greenville.  Whether  John  Houston  still  suspected  the  inter- 
ference of  his  hated  playmate  we  cannot  say.  The  prudent 
caution  of  the  latter  availed  so  that  they  did  not  often  meet,  and 
never  under  circumstances  which  could  justify  a  quarrel.  But 
events  were  ripening  which  were  to  bring  them  unavoidably  into 
collision.  We  are  now  in  the  midst  of  the  year  1776.  The 
strife  had  already  begun,  of  Whig  and  Tory,  in  the  upper  part 
of  South  Carolina.  It  happened  some  time  in  1774  that  the  after- 
wards notorious  Moses  Kirkland  stopped  one  night  at  the  dwelling 
of  John  Houston.  This  man  was  already  busy  in  stirring  up 
disaffection  to  the  popular  party  of  the  State.  He  was  a  man  of 
loose,  vicious  habits,  and  irregular  propensities.  He  and  John 
Houston  were  kindred  spirits  ;  and  the  hunter  was  soon  enlisted 
under  his  banners.  He  was  out  with  Kirkland  in  the  campaign 
of  1775,  when  the  Tories  were  dispersed  and  put  down  by  the 
decisive  measures  of  General  Williamson  and  William  Henry 
Drayton.  It  so  happened  that  Arthur  Holt  made  his  appearance 


189 

in  the  field,  also  for  the  first  time,  in  the  army  of  Williamson. 
The  two  knew  that  they  were  now  opponents  as  they  had  long 
been  enemies.  But  they  did  not  meet.  The  designs  of  Kirkland 
were  baffled,  his  troops  dispersed,  and  the  country  settled  down 
into  a  condition  of  seeming  quiet.  But  it  was  a  seeming  quiet 
only.  The  old  wounds  mortified,  and  when,  in  1780,  the  me- 
tropolis of  the  State  fell  into  the  arms  of  the  British,  yielding  to 
captivity  nearly  the  whole  of  its  military  power,  the  Tories  re- 
sumed their  arms  and  impulses  with  a  fury  which  long  forbear- 
ance had  heightened  into  perfect  madness.  Upon  the  long  and 
melancholy  history  of  that  savage  warfare  which  followed,  we 
need  not  dwell.  The  story  is  already  sufficiently  well  known. 
It  is  enough  to  say  that  John  Houston  distinguished  himself  by 
his  cruelties.  Arthur  Holt  threw  by  the  plough,  and  was  one 
of  Butler's  men  for  a  season.  With  the  decline  of  British  power 
in  the  lower,  the  ascendancy  in  the  upper  country  finally  passed 
over  to  the  Whigs.  Both  parties  were  now  broken  up  into  little 
squads  of  from  ten  to  fifty  persons  ; — the  Tories,  the  better  to 
avoid  pursuit,  the  Whigs,  the  better  to  compass  them  in  all  their 
hiding-places. 

It  was  a  cold  and  cheerless  evening  in  the  month  of  Novem- 
ber that  Arthur  Holt,  armed  to  the  teeth,  stopped  for  the  night, 
with  a  party  of  eleven  men,  at  a  cottage  about  fourteen  miles 
from  his  own  dwelling  on  the  banks  of  Reedy  River. 

An  hour  had  not  well  elapsed,  before  Arthur  Holt  found  some 
one  jerking  at  his  shoulder.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  recognised 
the  epileptic  of  whom  mention  was  made  in  the  early  part  of 
our  narrative.  Acker  was  still  an  epileptic,  and  still,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, a  boy ; — he  was  small,  decrepit,  pale,  and  still  liable 
to  the  shocking  disease,  the  effects  of  which  were  apparent 
equally  in  his  withered  face  and  shrivelled  person.  But  he  was 
not  without  intelligence,  and  his  memory  was  singularly  tena- 
cious of  benefits  and  injuries.  Eagerly  challenging  the  attention 
of  Arthur  Holt,  he  proceeded  to  tell  him,  that  John  Houston  had 
only  two  hours  before  been  seen  with  a  party  of  seven,  on  his 
way  to  the  farm  at  Pan's  Mountain,  where,  at  that  very  moment, 

17 


190  THE    GIFT. 

he  might  in  all  probability  be  found.  By  this  time  the  troopers, 
accustomed  to  sudden  rousings,  were  awake  and  in  possession  of 
the  intelligence.  It  was  greedily  listened  to  by  all  but  Arthur 
Holt.  John  Houston  was  particularly  odious  in  his  own  neigh- 
bourhood. Several  of  the  inhabitants  had  fallen  victims  to  his 
brutality  and  hate.  To  take  him,  living  or  dead, — to  feed  the 
vengeance  for  which  they  thirsted, — was  at  once  the  passion  of 
the  party.  It  was  with  some  surprise  that  they  found  their  leader 
apathetic  and  disposed  to  fling  doubt  upon  the  information. 

"  I  know  not  how  you  could  have  seen  John  Houston,  Peter 
Acker,  with  seven  men,  when  we  left  him  behind  us,  going 
below,  and  crossing  at  Daniel's  Ford  on  the  Ennoree,  only  two 
days  ago." 

"  'Twas  him  I  seed,  Captain,  and  no  other.  Don't  you  think 
I  knows  John  Houston  ?  Oughtn't  I  to  know  him  1  Wasn't  it  he 
that  used  to  beat  me,  and  duck  me  in  the  water?  I  knows  him. 
'Twas  John  Houston,  I  tell  you,  and  no  other  person." 

"You  are  mistaken,  Peter, — you  must  be  mistaken.  No 
horse  could  have  brought  him  from  the  Ennoree  so  soon." 

"  He's  on  his  own  horse,  the  great  bay.  'Tis  John  Houston, 
and  you  must  catch  him  and  hang  him." 

One  of  the  party,  a  spirited  young  man,  named  Fletchall, 
now  said : 

"  Whether  it's  Houston  and  his  men  or  not,  Captain  Holt, 
we  should  see  who  the  fellows  are.  Acker  ought  to  know 
Houston,  and  though  we  heard  of  him  on  the  Ennoree,  we  may 
have  heard  wrong.  It's  my  notion  that  Acker  is  right ;  and 
every  man  of  Reedy  River,  that  claims  to  be  a  man,  ought  to 
see  to  it." 

There  was  a  sting  in  this  speech  that  made  it  tell.  They  did 
not  understand  the  delicacy  of  their  Captain's  situation,  nor  could 
he  explain  it.  He  could  only  sigh  and  submit.  Buckling  on  his 
armour,  he  obeyed  the  necessity,  and  his  eager  troop  was  soon  in 
motion  for  the  cottage  of  Houston  at  Pan's  Mountain.  There,  two 
hours  before,  John  Houston  had  arrived.  He  had  separated  from 
his  companions.  It  was  not  affection  for  his  wife  that  brought 


THE  GIANT'S  COFFIN.  191 

Houston  to  his  home.  On  the  contrary,  his  salutation  was 
that  of  scorn  and  suspicion.  He  seemed  to  have  returned, 
brooding  on  some  dark  imagination  or  project.  When  his  wife 
brought  his  child,  and  put  him  on  his  knees,  saying  with  a 
mournful  look  of  reproach,  "  You  do  not  even  ask  for  your 
son !"  the  reply,  betraying  the  foulest  of  fancies — "  How  know 
I  that  he  is  !"  showed  too  plainly  the  character  of  the  demon 
that  was  struggling  in  his  soul.  The  miserable  woman  shrunk 
back  in  horror,  while  his  eyes,  lightened  by  a  cold  malignant 
smile,  pursued  her  as  if  in  mockery.  When  she  placed  before 
him  a  little  bread  and  meat,  he  repulsed  it,  exclaiming :  "  Would 
you  have  me  fed  by  your  Arthur?"  And  when  she  meekly 
replied  by  an  assurance  that  the  food  did  not  come  from 
him,  his  answer,  "  Ay,  but  I  am  not  so  sure  of  the  sauce !" 
indicated  a  doubt  so  horrible,  that  the  poor  woman  rushed  from 
the  apartment  with  every  feeling  and  fibre  of  her  frame  con- 
vulsed. Without  a  purpose,  except  to  escape  from  suspicions  by 
which  she  was  tortured,  she  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  enclo- 
sure, hurrying,  it  would  seem,  to  a  little  thicket,  where  her  sor- 
rows would  be  unseen,  when  she  suddenly  encountered  Arthur 
Holt,  with  a  cocked  pistol  in  his  grasp.  The  troopers  had 
dismounted  and  left  their  horses  in  the  woods.  They  were 
approaching  the  house  cautiously,  on  foot,  and  from  different 
quarters.  The  object  was  to  effect  a  surprise  of  the  Tory ; — 
since,  armed  and  desperate,  any  other  more  open  mode  of 
approach  might,  even  if  successful,  endanger  valuable  life.  The 
plan  had  been  devised  by  Arthur.  He  had  taken  to  himself  that 
route  which  brought  him  first  to  the  cottage.  His  object  was 
explained  in  the  few  first  words  with  Leda  Houston. 

"  Arthur  Holt !  —  you  here !"  was  her  exclamation,  as  she 
started  at  his  approach. 

"  Ay ;  and  your  husband  is  here !" 

"  No,  no !"  was  the  prompt  reply. 

"  Nay,  deny  not !  I  would  save  him — away !  let  him  fly  at 
once.  We  shall  soon  be  upon  him  !" 

A  mute  but  expressive  look  of  gratitude  rewarded  him,  while, 


192  THE    GIFT. 

forgetting  the  recent  indignities  to  which  she  had  been  subjected, 
Leda  hurried  back  to  the  cottage  and  put  Houston  in  possession 
of  the  facts.  He  started  to  his  feet,  put  the  child  from  his  knee, 
though  still  keeping  his  hand  upon  its  shoulder,  and  glaring  upon 
her  with  eyes  of  equal  jealousy  and  rage,  he  exclaimed — 

"  Woman  !  you  have  brought  my  enemy  upon  me  !" 

To  this  charge  the  high-souled  woman  made  no  answer,  but 
her  form  became  more  erect,  and  her  cheek  grew  paler,  while 
her  exquisitely  chiselled  lips  were  compressed  with  the  effort  to 
keep  down  her  stifling  indignation.  She  approached  him  as  if 
to  relieve  him  of  the  child ;  but  he  repulsed  her,  and  grasping 
the  little  fellow  firmly  in  his  hands,  with  no  tenderness  of  hold,  * 
he  lifted  him  to  his  shoulder,  exclaiming — 

"  No !  he  shares  my  danger !  he  goes  with  me.  He  is  at 
least  your  child — he  shall  protect  me  from  your — " 

The  sentence  was  left  unfinished  as  he  darted  through  the 
door !  With  a  mother's  scream  she  bounded  after  him,  as  he 
took  his  way  to  the  edge  of  the  little  coppice  in  \vhich  his  horse 
was  fastened.  The  agony  of  a  mother's  soul  lent  wings  to  her 
feet.  She  reached  him  ere  he  could  undo  the  fastenings  of  his 
horse,  and,  seizing  him  by  his  arm,  arrested  his  progress. 

"  What  !"  he  exclaimed ;  "  you  would  seize — you  would  de- 
liver me !" 

"  My  child !  my  child !"  was  her  only  answer,  as  she  clung 
to  his  arm,  and  endeavoured  to  tear  the  infant  from  his  grasp. 

"  He  goes  with  me  !     He  shall  protect  me  from  the  shot !" 

"  You  will  not,  cannot  risk  his  precious  life." 

"  Do  I  not  risk  mine  ?" 

"  My  son — your  son  !" 

"Were  I  sure  of  that!" 

"  God  of  heaven  !  help  me  !     Save  him !  save  him  !" 

But  there  was  no  time  for  parley.  A  pistol-shot  was  fired 
from  the  opposite  quarter  of  the  house,  whether  by  accident,  or 
for  the  purpose  of  alarm,  is  not  known,  but  it  prompted  the 
instant  movement  of  the  ruffian,  who,  in  order  to  extricate  him- 
self from  the  grasp  of  his  wife,  smote  her  to  the  earth,  and  in 


193 

the  midst  of  the  child's  screams,  hurried  forward  with  his  prize. 
To  reach  the  coppice,  to  draw  forth  and  mount  his  horse,  was 
the  work  of  an  instant  only.  The  life  of  the  hunter  and  the 
partisan  had  made  him  expert  enough  in  such  performances. 
Mounted  on  a  splendid  bay,  of  the  largest  size  and  greatest 
speed,  he  lingered  but  a  moment  in  sight,  the  child  conspicu- 
ously elevated  in  his  grasp,  its  head  raised  above  his  left 
shoulder,  while  one  of  its  little  arms  might  be  seen  stretching 
towards  his  mother,  now  rising.  At  this  instant  Arthur  Holt 
made  his  appearance.  From  the  wood,  where  he  had  remained 
as  long  as  he  might,  he  had  beheld  the  brutal  action  of  his 
enemy.  It  was  the  second  time  that  he  had  witnessed  such  a 
deed,  and  his  hand  now  convulsively  grasped  and  cocked  his 
pistol,  as  he  rushed  forward  to  revenge  it.  But  the  unhappy 
woman  rose  in  time  to  prevent  him.  Her  extended  arms  were 
thrown  across  his  path.  He  raised  the  deadly  weapon  above 
them. 

"Would  you  shoot!  oh,  my  God!  would  you  shoot!  Do 
you  not  see  my  child  !  my  child !" 

The  action  of  Arthur  was  suspended  at  the  mother's  words ; 
and,  lifting  the  child  aloft  with  a  powerful  arm,  as  if  in  tri- 
umph and  defiance,  the  brutal  father,  putting  spurs  to  his  horse, 
went  off  at  full  speed.  A  single  bound  enabled  the  noble  animal 
to  clear  the  enclosure,  and,  appearing  but  a  single  moment  upon 
the  hillside,  the  mother  had  one  more  glimpse  of  her  child, 
whose  screams,  in  another  moment,  were  drowned  in  the  clatter 
of  the  horse's  feet.  She  sunk  to  the  ground  at  the  foot  of  Arthur, 
as  his  comrades  leapt  over  the  surrounding  fence. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Pursuit  under  present  circumstances  was  pretty  much  out  of 
the  question — yet  Arthur  Holt  determined  upon  it.  John  Hous- 
ton was  mounted  upon  one  of  the  most  famous  horses  of  the 
country.  He  had  enjoyed  a  rest  of  a  couple  of  hours  before  the 

17* 


194  THE    GIFT. 

troopers  came  upon  him.  The  steeds  of  the  latter,  at  all  times 
inferior,  were  jaded  with  the  day's  journey.  Any  attempt  at 
direct  pursuit  would,  therefore,  in  all  probability,  only  end  in 
driving  the  Tory  out  of  the  neighbourhood,  thus  increasing  the 
chances  of  his  final  escape.  This  was  by  no  means  the  object 
of  the  party,  and  when  Arthur  ordered  the  pursuit,  some  of  his 
men  remonstrated  by  showing,  or  endeavouring  to  show,  that 
such  must  be  the  effect  of  it.  Arthur  Holt,  however,  had  his 
own  objects.  But  his  commands  were  resisted  by  no  less  a 
person  than  Leda  herself. 

"  Do  not  pursue,  Arthur,  for  my  sake,  do  not  pursue.  My 
child ! — he  will  slay  my  child  if  you  press  him  hard.  He  is 
desperate.  You  know  him  not.  Press  him  not,  for  my  sake, — 
for  the  child's  sake, — but  let  him  go  free." 

The  entreaty,  urged  strenuously  and  with  all  those  tears  and 
prayers  which  can  only  flow  from  a  mother's  heart,  was  effec- 
tual— at  least  to  prevent  that  direct  pursuit  which  Arthur  had 
meditated.  But  though  his  companions  favoured  the  prayers  of 
the  wife  and  mother,  they  were  very  far  from  being  disposed  to 
let  the  Tory  go  free.  On  the  contrary,  when,  a  little  after,  they 
drew  aside  to  the  copse  for  the  purpose  of  farther  consultation, 
Arthur  Holt  found,  to  his  chagrin,  that  his  course  with  regard 
to  Houston  was  certainly  suspected.  His  comrades  assumed  a 
decision  in  the  matter  which  seemed  to  take  the  business  out  of 
his  hands.  Young  Fletchall  did  not  scruple  to  say,  that  he  was 
not  satisfied  with  the  spirit  which  Arthur  had  shown  in  the  pur- 
suit ;  and  the  hints  conveyed  by  more  than  one,  in  the  course  of 
the  discussion,  were  of  such  a  nature,  that  the  mortified  Arthur 
threw  up  his  command ;  a  proceeding  which  seemed  to  occasion 
no  regret  or  dissatisfaction.  Fletchall  was  immediately  invested 
with  it,  and  proceeded  to  exercise  it  with  a  degree  of  acuteness 
and  vigour  which  soon  satisfied  the  party  of  his  peculiar  fitness 
for  its  duties.  His  plan  was  simple  but  comprehensive.  He 
said:  "We  cannot  press  the  pursuit,  or  we  drive  him  off;  but 
we  can  so  fix  it  as  to  keep  him  where  he  is.  If  we  do  not  press 
him,  he  will  keep  in  the  woods,  near  abouts,  till  he  can  find  some 


195 

chance  of  getting  the  child  to  the  mother  again.  There's  no 
doubt  an  understanding  between  them.  She  knows  where  to 
find  him  in  the  woods,  or  he'll  come  back  at  night  to  the  farm. 
We  must  put  somebody  to  watch  over  all  her  movements.  Who 
will  that  be?" 

The  question  was  answered  by  the  epileptic,  Acker,  who, 
unasked,  had  hung  upon  the  skirts  of  the  party. 

"  I  will  watch  her !" 

«  You !" 

"  Yes !  I'm  as  good  a  one  as  you  can  get." 

"  Very  well !  but  suppose  you  have  one  of  your  fits,  Acker !" 

"  I  won't  have  one  now  for  two  weeks.  My  time's  over  for 
this  month." 

"  Well,  in  two  weeks,  I  trust,  his  time  will  be  over,  too.  We 
will  get  some  twenty  more  fellows  and  make  a  ring  round  him. 
That's  my  plan.  Don't  press,  for  I  wouldn't  have  him  hurt  the 
child ;  but  mark  him  when  he  aims  to  pass  the  ring." 

The  plan  thus  agreed  on,  with  numerous  details  which  need 
not  be  given  here,  was  immediately  entered  upon  by  all  parties. 
Arthur  Holt  alone  took  no  share  in  the  adventure.  The  design 
was  resolved  upon  even  without  his  privity,  though  the  general 
object  could  not  be  concealed  from  his  knowledge.  On  throw- 
ing up  his  commission  he  had  withdrawn  from  his  comrades, 
under  a  show  of  mortification,  which  was  regarded  as  suffi- 
ciently natural  by  those  around  him  to  justify  such  a  course. 
He  returned  to  his  farm  on  Reedy  River,  but  he  was  no  indif- 
ferent or  inactive  spectator  of  events. 

Meanwhile,  John  Houston  had  found  a  temporary  retreat  some 
six  miles  distant  from  the  dwelling  of  his  wife.  It  was  a  spot 
seemingly  impervious,  in  the  density  of  its  woods,  to  the  steps  of 
man.  A  small  natural  cavity  in  a  hillside  had  been  artificially 
deepened,  in  all  probability,  by  the  bear,  who  had  left  it  as  a 
heritage  to  the  hunter  to  whom  he  had  yielded  up  his  ears. 
The  retreat  was  known  to  the  hunter  only.  He  had  added, 
from  time  to  time,  certain  little  improvements  of  his  own.  Cells 
were  opened  on  one  side,  and  then  the  other.  These  were 


196  THE    GIFT. 

strewn  with  dried  leaves  and  rushes,  and  at  the  remote  inner 
extremity,  a  fourth  hollow  had  been  prepared  so  as  to  admit  of 
fire,  the  smoke  finding  its  way  through  a  small  and  simple 
opening  at  the  top.  All  around  this  rude  retreat  the  woods  were 
dense,  the  hunter  being  at  particular  pains  to  preserve  it  as  a 
place  of  secrecy  and  concealment.  Its  approach  was  circuitous, 
and  the  very  entrance  upon  it  one  of  those  happy  discoveries,  by 
which  nature  is  made  to  accomplish  the  subtlest  purposes  of  art. 
Two  gigantic  shafts,  shooting  out  from  the  same  root,  had  run 
up  in  diverging  but  parallel  lines,  leaving  between  them  an 
opening  through  which,  at  a  moderate  bound,  a  steed  might 
make  his  way.  On  each  side  of  this  mighty  tree  the  herbage 
crowded  closely ;  the  tree  itself  seemed  to  close  the  passage,  and 
behind  it  care  was  taken,  by  freely  scattering  brush  and  leaves, 
to  remove  any  traces  of  horse  or  human  footsteps.  In  this  place 
John  Houston  found  refuge.  To  this  place,  in  the  dead  of  night, 
the  unhappy  Leda  found  her  way.  How  she  knew  of  the  spot 
may  be  conjectured  only.  But,  prompted  by  a  mother's  love 
and  a  mother's  fears,  she  did  not  shrink  from  the  task  of 
exploring  the  dreary  forest  alone.  Here  she  found  her  mise- 
rable husband,  and  was  once  more  permitted  to  clasp  her  infant 
to  her  bosom.  The  little  fellow  slept  soundly  upon  the  rushes, 
in  one  of  the  recesses  of  the  cave.  The  father  sat  at  the 
entrance,  keeping  watch  over  him.  His  stern  eye  looked  upon 
the  embrace  of  mother  and  child  with  a  keen  and  painful 
interest ;  and  when  the  child,  awakened  out  of  sleep,  shrieking 
with  joy,  clung  to  the  neck  of  the  mother,  sobbing  her  name 
with  a  convulsive  delight,  he  turned  from  the  spectacle  with  a 
single  sentence,  muttered  through  his  closed  teeth,  by  which  we 
may  see  what  his  meditations  had  been — "  Had  the  brat  but 
called  me  father!"  The  words  were  unheard  by  the  mother, 
too  full  of  joy  to  be  conscious  of  any  thing  but  her  child  and  her 
child's  recovery.  When,  however,  before  the  dawn  of  day,  she 
proposed  to  leave  him  and  take  the  child  with  her,  she  was  con- 
founded to  meet  with  denial. 

"  No !"  said  the  brutal  father.     "  He  remains  with  me.     If  he 


197 

is  my  child,  he  shall  remain  as  my  security  and  yours.  Hear 
me,  woman  !  Your  ruffians  have  not  pursued  me ;  your  Arthur 
Holt  knows  better  than  to  press  upon  me ;  but  I  know  their 
aims.  They  have  covered  the  outlets.  They  would  make  my 
captivity  secure.  I  wish  but  three  days ;  in  that  time,  Cun- 
ningham will  give  them  employment,  and  I  shall  walk  over 
them  as  I  please.  But,  during  that  time,  I  shall  want  food  for 
myself  and  horse — perhaps  you  will  think  there  is  some  neces- 
sity for  bringing  food  to  the  child.  I  do  not  object  to  that. 
Bring  it  then  yourself,  nightly,  and  remember,  the  first  show  of 
treachery  seals  his  fate !" 

He  pointed  to  the  child  as  he  spoke. 

"  Great  God !"  she  exclaimed.  "  Are  you  a  man,  John 
Houston  !  Will  you  keep  the  infant  from  me !" 

"  Ay ! — you  should  thank  heaven  that  I  do  not  keep  you 
from  him  also.  But  away  !  Bring  the  provisions !  Be  faithful, 
and  you  shall  have  the  child.  But,  remember !  if  I  am  en- 
trapped, he  dies !" 

We  pass  over  the  horror  of  the  mother.  At  the  dawn  of  day, 
as  she  was  hurrying,  but  not  unseen,  along  the  banks  of  Reedy 
River,  she  was  encountered  by  Arthur  Holt. 

"  I  went  to  your  house  at  midnight,  Leda,  to  put  you  on  your 
guard,"  was  the  salutation  of  the  farmer.  "  I  know  where  you 
have  been,  and  can  guess  what  duty  is  before  you.  I  must  also 
tell  you  its  danger." 

He  proceeded  to  explain  to  her  the  watch  that  was  put  upon 
her  movements,  and  the  cordon  militaire  by  which  her  husband 
was  surrounded. 

"  What  am  I  to  do !"  was  her  exclamation,  as,  wringing  her 
hands,  the  tears  for  the  first  time  flowed  freely  from  her  eyes. 

"  I  will  tell  you !  Go  not  back  to  your  cottage,  till  you  can 
procure  the  child.  Go  now  to  the  stone  heap  on  the  river  bank 
below,  which  they  call  the  *  Giant's  Coffin.'  There,  in  an  hour 
from  now,  I  will  bring  you  a  basket  of  provisions.  The  place 
is  very  secret,  and  before  it  is  found  out  that  you  go  there,  you 
will  have  got  the  child.  Nightly  I  will  fill  the  basket  in  the 


198  THE    GIFT. 

same  place,  which,  at  the  dawn,  you  can  procure.     Go  now, 
before  we  are  seen,  and  God  be  with  you !" 

They  separated — the  young  farmer  for  his  home,  and  Leda 
for  the  gloomy  vault  which  popular  tradition  had  dignified  with 
the  title  of  the  «  Giant's  Coffin.'  This  was  an  Indian  giant,  by 
the  way,  whose  exploits,  in  the  erection  of  Table  Mountain,  for 
gymnastic  purposes,  would  put  to  shame  the  inferior  feats  of  the 
devil,  under  direction  of  Merlin  or  Michael  Scott.  But  we  have 
no  space  in  this  chapter  for  such  descriptions.  Enough  if  we 
give  some  idea  of  the  sort  of  coffin  and  the  place  of  burial  which 
the  giant  selected  for  himself,  when  he  could  play  his  mountain 
pranks  no  longer.  The  coffin  was  a  vaulted  chamber  of  stone, 
lying  at  the  river's  edge,  and  liable  to  be  overflowed  in  seasons 
of  freshet.  It  took  its  name  from  its  shape.  Its  area  was  an 
oblong  square,  something  more  than  twelve  feet  in  length,  and 
something  less  than  five  in  breadth.  Its  depth  at  the  upper  end 
was  about  six  feet,  but  it  sloped  gradually  down,  until,  at  the 
bottom,  the  ends  lay  almost  even  with  the  surrounding  rocks. 
The  inner  sides  were  tolerably  smooth  and  upright — the  outer 
presented  the  appearance  of  huge  boulders,  in  no  way  differing 
from  the  ordinary  shape  and  externals  of  such  detached  masses. 
The  separate  parts  had  evidently,  at  one  period,  been  united. 
Some  convulsion  of  nature  had  fractured  the  mass,  and  left  the 
parts  in  a  position  so  relative,  that  tradition  might  well  be  per- 
mitted to  assume  the  labours  of  art  in  an  achievement  which  was 
really  that  of  nature  alone.  To  complete  the  fancied  resem- 
blance of  this  chamber  to  a  coffin,  it  had  a  lid ;  a  thin  layer  of 
stone,  detached  from  the  rest,  which,  as  the  earth  around  it  had 
been  loosened  and  washed  away  by  the  rains,  had  gradually 
slid  down  from  the  heights  above,  and  now  in  part  rested  upon 
the  upper  end  of  the  vault.  The  boys  at  play,  uniting  their 
strength,  had  succeeded  in  forcing  it  down  a  foot  or  more,  so 
that  it  now  covered,  securely,  from  the  weather,  some  four  or 
five  feet  of  the  '  Giant's  Coffin.'  It  was  at  this  natural  chamber 
that  Arthur  Holt  had  counselled  Leda  Houston  to  remain,  until 
he  could  bring  the  promised  supply  of  provisions.  This  he  did, 


199 

punctually,  at  the  time  appointed,  and  continued  to  do  until  it 
ceased  to  be  necessary ;  to  this  spot  did  the  wretched  wife  and 
mother  repair  before  dawn  of  every  morning,  bearing  her  burden 
with  all  the  uncomplaining  meekness  of  a  broken  heart.  We 
must  suppose,  in  the  meantime,  that  the  cordon  has  been  drawn 
around  the  tract  of  country  in  which  it  was  known  that  Houston 
harboured.  The  news  was  spread,  at  the  same  time,  that  an 
attack  might  be  expected  from  Bloody  Bill  Cunningham,  or 
some  of  his  men  ;  and  the  consequence  was,  that  the  country 
was  every  where  in  arms,  and  vigilant.  A  feeling  of  pity  for 
Leda  Houston,  who  was  generally  beloved,  alone  prevented  the 
more  daring  young  men  from  pressing  upon  the  fugitive,  hunt- 
ing him,  dog  and  fire,  and  bringing  the  adventure  to  a  fierce 
and  final  issue.  Meanwhile,  the  epileptic,  Acker,  was  active 
in  the  business  which  he  had  undertaken.  He  was  partially 
successful — but  of  his  proceedings  we  must  speak  at  another 
moment. 

The  situation  of  Leda  Houston  was  in  no  ways  improved  by 
the  diligence,  the  patience,  the  devotion  which  she  displayed  in 
her  servitude.  She  did  not  seem  to  make  any  progress  in  sub- 
duing the  inexorable  nature  of  her  husband.  She  was  permitted 
to  be  with  and  to  feed  her  child ;  to  clasp  him  to  her  bosom 
when  she  slept,  and  to  watch  over  his  sleep  with  that  mixed 
feeling  of  hope  and  fear,  which  none  but  a  mother  knows.  But 
these  were  all  her  privileges.  The  brutal  father,  still  insinuating 
base  and  unworthy  suspicions,  declared  that  the  child  should 
remain,  a  pledge  of  her  fidelity,  and  a  partial  guarantee  for  his 
own  safety. 

Four  days  had  now  elapsed  in  this  manner.  On  the  morning 
of  the  fifth,  at  a  somewhat  later  hour  than  usual,  she  re-appeared 
with  her  basket,  and  having  set  down  her  stores,  proceeded  to 
tell  her  husband  of  the  arrival  of  a  certain  squad  of  troopers, 
*  Butler's  men,'  known  for  the  fierce  hostility  with  which  they 
hunted  the  men  of  '  Cunningham.'  The  tidings  gave  him  some 
concern.  He  saw  in  it  the  signs  of  a  dogged  determination 
of  the  neighbourhood  to  secure  him  at  all  hazards  ;  since,  from 


200  THE    GIFT. 

what  he  knew  of  the  present  condition  of  the  war,  these  men 
could  be  required  in  that  quarter  only  for  some  such  purpose. 
They  were  wanted  elsewhere.  "  Did  you  see  them  ?"  was  the 
question,  which  she  answered  in  the  negative.  "  Who  told 
you  then  of  their  arrival  T'  She  was  silent !  Her  counte- 
nance underwent  a  change.  "  Woman  !  you  have  spoken  with 
Holt !  These  are  his  provisions  !"  With  a  blow  of  his  foot  he 
struck  the  basket  from  her  hand,  and,  in  his  fury,  trampled 
upon  the  scattered  stores.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  the  un- 
happy woman  gathered  up  enough  to  pacify  the  hunger  of  the 
child.  That  day  was  passed  in  sullen  and  ferocious  silence  on 
his  part — on  hers  in  mute  caresses  of  her  boy.  His  darker 
suspicions  were  in  full  force,  and  darker  thoughts  came  with 
them.  "  Could  I  but  know  !"  he  muttered.  "  The  child  has 
my  mouth  and  nose ;  but  the  forehead,  the  hair,  the  eyes, — are 
his!"  Convulsed  with  terrible  fancies,  the  miserable  man  hur- 
ried to  the  entrance  of  the  cavern,  and  throwing  himself  upon 
the  earth,  leaned  back,  and  looked  up  through  the  leafy  openings 
at  the  bits  of  sky  that  were  suffered  to  appear  above.  In  this 
gloomy  mood  and  posture,  hours  passed  by  as  moments.  It  was 
midnight.  A  change  of  weather  was  at  hand.  The  stars  were 
hidden — the  sky  overcast  with  clouds,  while  the  winds,  seeming 
to  subside,  were  moaning  through  the  woods  as  one  in  a  deep 
and  painful  sleep.  The  sound,  the  scene,  were  congenial  with 
the  outlaw's  soul.  It  was  full  of  angry  elements  that  only 
waited  the  signal  to  break  forth  in  storm.  Suddenly,  he  was 
roused  from  his  meditations  by  the  cessation  of  all  sounds  from 
within  the  cave.  The  mother  slept  there,  she  had  been  playing 
with  the  child,  and  he  upon  her  bosom.  Nature,  in  her  case, 
had  sunk,  in  spite  of  sorrow,  under  fatigue.  And  she  slept 
deeply,  her  slumbers  broken  only  by  a  plaintive  moaning  of 
those  griefs  that  would  not  sleep.  With  a  strange  curiosity 
Houston  seated  himself  quietly  beside  the  pair,  while  his  eyes 
keenly  perused  the  calm  and  innocent  features  of  the  child. 
Long  was  the  study,  and  productive  of  conflicting  emotions.  It 
was  interrupted  with  a  start,  and  his  eyes  involuntarily  turned, 


THE  GIANT'S  COFFIN.  201 

with  even  a  less  satisfied  expression,  upon  the  features  of  his 
wife. 

But  it  was  not  to  watch  or  to  enjoy  the  beauty  which  he 
beheld,  that  John  Houston  now  bent  his  dark  brows  over  the 
sleeping  countenance  of  his  wife.  The  expression  in  his  looks 
was  that  of  a  wild  and  fearful  curiosity  suddenly  aroused.  She 
had  spoken  in  her  sleep.  She  had  uttered  a  word — a  name — 
which,  of  all  others,  was  most  likely,  from  any  lips,  to  awaken 
his  most  angry  emotions, — from  her  lips,  most  terrible.  The 
name  was  that  of  Arthur  Holt, — and  she  still  murmured.  The 
ears  of  the  suspicious  husband  were  placed  close  to  her  lips, 
that  none  of  the  fine  sounds  might  escape  them.  He  heard 
enough  to  open  to  him  a  vista,  at  the  extremity  of  which  his 
diseased  imagination  saw  the  worst  shapes  of  hate  and  jealousy. 
With  the  pressing  thought  in  her  memory  of  the  tasks  before 
her,  she  spoke  of  the  little  basket — the  bread — the  bottle  of  milk, 
the  slender  slices  of  ham  or  venison — which  she  had  been 
accustomed  to  receive  and  bring.  Then  came  the  two  words, 
1  Giant's  Coffin,'  and  the  quick  fancy  of  the  outlaw,  stimulated 
by  hate  and  other  passions,  immediately  reached,  at  a  bound, 
the  whole  narrative  of  her  dependence  upon  Holt  and  her  meet- 
ings with  him  at  the  «  Giant's  Coffin  !' 

A  dark  smile  passed  over  his  countenance.  It  was  the  smile 
of  a  demon,  who  is  at  length,  after  long  baffling,  in  possession  of 
his  prey.  Leda  slept  on — soundly  slept — for  nature  had  at 
length  coerced  the  debtor,  and  compelled  her  rights — and  the 
hour  was  approaching  when  it  was  usual  for  her  to  set  out  on 
her  nightly  progress.  The  resolution  came,  quick  as  lightning, 
to  the  mind  of  the  ruffian.  He  rose  stealthily  from  the  rushes, 
— drew  his  pistols  from  his  belt,  silently  examined  the  flints,  and 
looking  at  the  knife  in  his  bosom,  stole  forth  from  the  cavern. 
With  a  spirit  exulting  with  the  demoniac  hope  of  assuring  him- 
self of  a  secret  long  suspected,  and  of  realizing  a  vengeance 
long  delayed ;  and  familiar,  night  and  day,  with  every  step  in 
his  progress,  he  hurried  directly  across  the  country  to  the  banks 
of  Reedy  River.  The  night  by  this  time,  had  become  tempestu- 

18 


202  THE    GIFT. 

ous.  Big  drops  of  rain  had  already  began  to  fall ;  but  these 
caused  no  delay  to  the  hardy  outlaw.  He  reached  the  river, 
and,  moving  now  with  cautious  steps  from  rock  to  rock,  he 
approached  the  «  Giant's  Coffin'  with  the  manner  of  one  who 
expects  to  find  a  victim  and  an  enemy.  One  hand  grasped  a 
pistol,  the  other  a  knife  ! — and  stealing  onward  with  the  pace  of 
the  Indian,  he  hung  over  the  sides  of  the  '  Coffin,'  and  peered 
into  its  dark  chamber  with  his  keenest  eyes.  It  was  untenanted. 
"  I  am  too  soon,"  he  muttered.  "  Well !  I  can  wait !"  And 
where  better  to  await  the  victim — where  more  secure  from  detec- 
tion— than  in  the  vault  which  lay  before  him  ! — one  half  covered 
from  the  weather  and  shut  in  from  all  inspection, — that  alone 
excepted,  for  which  he  had  come  prepared.  The  keen  gusts  of 
wind  which  now  came  across  the  stream  laden  with  rain,  was  an 
additional  motive  to  this  movement.  He  obeyed  the  suggestion, 
passed  into  the  mouth  of  the  *  Coffin ;'  and  crouching  from  sight, 
in  a  sitting  posture,  in  the  upper  or  covered  part  of  the  chamber, 
he  sat  with  the  anxiety  of  a  passion  which  did  not,  however, 
impair  its  patience,  awaiting  for  his  foe. 

He  had  not  reached  this  position  unseen  or  unaccompanied. 
We  have  already  intimated  that  Acker,  the  epileptic,  had  made 
some  progress  in  his  discoveries.  With  the  singular  cunning, 
and  the  wonderful  acuteness  which  distinguish  some  of  the 
faculties,  where  others  are  impaired  in  the  same  individual,  he 
had  contrived,  unseen  and  unsuspected,  to  track  Leda  Houston 
to  the  place  of  her  husband's  concealment.  He  had  discovered 
the  periods  of  her  incoming  and  departure,  and,  taking  his  rest 
at  all  other  periods,  he  was  always  prepared  to  renew  his  surveil- 
lance at  those  moments  when  the  wife  was  to  go  forth.  He  had 
barely  resumed  his  watch,  on  the  night  in  question,  when  he 
was  surprised  to  see  Houston  himself  and  not  his  wife  emerging 
from  the  cave.  He  followed  cautiously  his  footsteps.  Light  of 
foot,  and  keeping  at  convenient  distance,  his  espionage  was 
further  assisted  by  the  wind,  which,  coming  in  their  faces, 
effectually  kept  all  sounds  of  pursuit  from  the  ears  of  the  outlaw. 
His  progress  was  not  so  easy  when  the  latter  emerged  from  the 


THE  GIANT'S  COFFIN.  203 

woods,  and  stood  upon  the  banks  of  the  river.  His  approach 
now  required  more  caution ;  but,  stealing  on  from  shrub  to  shrub, 
and  rock  to  rock,  Acker  at  length  stood — or  rather  crouched — 
upon  the  brink  of  the  river  also,  and  at  but  small  distance  from 
the  other.  But  of  this  distance  he  had  ceased  to  be  conscious. 
He  was  better  informed,  however,  when,  a  moment  after,  he 
heard  a  dull,  clattering,  but  low  sound,  which  he  rightly  conjec- 
tured to  have  been  caused  by  some  pressure  upon  the  lower  lid 
of  the  Coffin,  which  being  somewhat  pendulous,  was  apt  to 
vibrate  slightly,  in  spite  of  its  great  length  and  weight,  under 
any  pressure  from  above.  This  sound  apprised  Acker  of  the 
exact  whereabouts  of  the  outlaw,  and  his  keen  eyes  at  length 
detected  the  dim  outline  of  the  latter's  form,  as  he  stood  upon 
the  lid  of  the  Coffin,  the  moment  before  he  disappeared  within  its 
recesses.  Encouraged  to  advance,  by  the  disappearance  of  the 
other,  the  Epileptic  did  so  with  extreme  caution.  He  was 
favoured  by  the  hoarse  tumbling  of  the  water  as  it  poured  its 
way  among  the  rocks,  and  by  the  increasing  discords  of  the 
wind  and  rain,  which  now  came  down  in  heavy  showers.  As 
he  crawled  from  rock  to  rock,  with  the  stealthy  movement  of  a 
cat  along  some  precipitous  ledge,  shrinking  and  shivering  beneath 
the  storm,  his  own  desire  for  shelter  led  him  suddenly  to  the 
natural  conclusion  that  Houston  had  found  his  within  the  vault. 
The  ideas  of  Acker  came  to  him  slowly ;  but,  gradually,  as  he 
continued  to  approach,  he  remembered  the  clattering  of  the  Coffin- 
lid, — he  remembered  how,  in  his  more  youthful  days,  the  boys, 
with  joint  strength,  had  forced  it  to  its  present  place,  and  he 
conceived  the  sudden  purpose  of  making  the  Coffin  of  the  Giant, 
that  also  of  he  deadly  enemy  whose  boyish  persecutions  he  had 
neither  forgot  nor  forgiven.  To  effect  his  present  object,  which, 
suddenly  conceived,  became  for  the  time  an  absorbing  thirst,  a 
positive  frenzy,  in  his  breast, — he  concentrated  all  his  faculties, ' 
whether  of  mind  or  of  body,  upon  his  task.  His  pace  was 
deliberate,  and  so  stealthy,  that  he  reached  the  upper  end  of 
the  Coffin,  laid  himself  down  beside  it,  and,  applying  his  ear  to 
one  of  the  crevices,  distinctly  heard  the  suppressed  breathings  of 


204  THE    GIFT. 

the  man  within.  Crawling  back,  he  laid  his  hands  lightly  and 
with  the  greatest  care  upon  the  upper  and  heavier  end  of  the 
stone.  His  simple  touch,  so  nicely  did  it  seem  to  be  balanced, 
caused  its  vibration  ;  and  with  the  first  consciousness  of  its 
movement,  Houston,  whom  we  must  suppose  to  have  been  lying 
down,  raising  his  pistol  with  one  hand,  laid  the  other  on  one  of 
the  sides  of  the  vault,  with  the  view,  as  it  was  thought,  to  lift 
himself  from  his  recumbent  position.  He  did  so  just  as  the 
huge  plate  of  stone  was  set  in  motion,  and  the  member  was 
caught  and  closely  wedged  between  the  mass  and  the  side  of  the 
Coffin  upon  which  it  rested.  A  slight  cry  broke  from  the  outlaw. 
The  fingers  were  crushed,  the  hand  effectually  secured.  But 
for  this,  so  slow  was  the  progress  of  the  stone,  that  it  would 
have  been  very  easy  for  Houston  to  have  scrambled  out  before 
the  vault  was  entirely  closed  in.  Slowly,  but  certainly,  the  lid 
went  down.  Ignorant  of  the  occasion  of  the  outlaw's  groans, 
the  Epileptic  answered  them  with  a  chuckle,  which,  had  the 
former  been  conscious,  would  have  taught  him  his  enemy.  But 
he  had  fainted.  The  excruciating  agony  of  his  hurt  had  been 
too  much  for  his  strength.  Acker  finished  his  work  without 
interruption ;  then  piling  upon  the  plate  a  mountain  of  smaller 
stones,  he  dashed  away  in  the  direction  of  Holt's  cottage.  Here 
he  encountered  the  young  farmer,  busy,  as  was  usual  about  that 
hour,  in  making  up  his  little  basket  of  provisions.  A  few  words 
from  the  Epileptic  sufficed  to  inform  him  that  they  were  no 
longer  necessary — that  Houston  was  gone — fled — utterly  escaped, 
and  now  in  all  probability,  beyond  pursuit.  Such  was  the  tale 
he  told.  He  had  his  policy  in  it.  The  characteristic  malignant 
cunning  which  had  prompted  him  to  the  fearful  revenge  which 
he  had  taken  upon  his  enemy,  was  studious  now  to  prevent  it 
from  being  defeated.  To  have  told  the  truth,  would  have  been 
to  open  the  «  Giant's  Coffin,'  to  undo  all  that  had  been  done, 
and  once  more  let  free  the  hated  tyrant  upon  whose  head  he  had 
visited  the  meditated  retribution  of  more  than  twenty  years. 
Acker  well  knew  the  generous  nature  of  the  young  farmer,  and 
did  not  doubt  that,  if  he  declared  the  facts,  Arthur  would  have 


205 

proceeded  at  once  to  the  rescue  of  the  common  enemy.  He 
suppressed  all  show  of  exultation,  made  a  plausible  story — it 
matters  not  of  what  sort — by  which  t^  account  for  the  flight  of 
Houston ;  and  the  consequence  was,  that,  instead  of  proceeding 
as  before  to  the  '  Giant's  Coffin,'  Arthur  Holt  now  prepared  to 
set  out  for  the  *  Hunter's  Cave.'  But  the  day  had  broke  in 
tempest.  A  fearful  storm  was  raging.  The  windows  of  heaven 
were  opened,  the  rain  came  down  in  torrents,  and  the  wind  went 
forth  with  equal  violence,  as  if  from  the  whole  four  quarters  of 
the  earth.  The  young  farmer  got  out  his  little  wagon,  and 
jumping  in,  Acker  prepared  to  guide  him  to  the  place  of  retreat. 

"  The  river  is  rising  fast,  Peter,"  was  the  remark  of  Arthur 
as  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  swollen  stream  as  it  foamed  along 
its  way. 

"  Yes !"  said  the  ether,  with  a  sort  of  hiccough,  by  which  he 
suppressed  emotions  which  he  did  not  venture  to  declare :  "  Yes ! 
I  reckon  'twon't  be  many  hours  'fore  it  fills  the  '  Coffin.'  " 

"  If  it  keeps  on  at  this  rate,"  returned  the  other,  "  one  hour 
will  be  enough  to  do  that." 

"  Only  one,  you  think  ?" 

«  Yes  !  one  will  do  !" 

Another  hiccough  of  the  Epileptic  appropriately  finished  the 
dialogue. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Leda  awakened  from  her  deep  sleep  to  find  herself  alone  with 
the  child.  She  was  startled  and  alarmed  at  the  absence  of  her 
husband ;  but  as  the  child  was  left — the  great,  and  we  may  add, 
the  only,  object  for  which  she  could  have  borne  so  much,  she 
was  satisfied.  On  assuring  herself  of  the  departure  of  Houston 
from  the  cave,  she  would  unhesitatingly  have  taken  hers,  also— 
but  the  storm  was  now  raging  without,  and,  persuaded  that  her 
husband  had  taken  advantage  of  its  violence  to  cross  the  barriers, 
she  gathered  up  the  fragments  of  the  last  night's  supper,  and 

18* 


206  THE    GIFT. 

was  busy  in  giving  her  boy  his  little  breakfast,  when  roused  by 
the  voice  of  Arthur  Holt.  The  story  of  the  Epileptic  was  soon 
told — as  he  had  related  it  to  Arthur.  In  this  story,  as  there  was 
nothing  improbable,  both  parties  put  implicit  faith  ;  and,  cloaking 
mother  and  child  as  well  as  he  might,  the  young  farmer  bore 
them  through  the  close  thicket  to  the  place,  some  three  hundred 
yards  without,  where,  on  account  of  the  denseness  of  the  wood, 
he  had  been  compelled  to  leave  the  wagon.  The  horse  of 
Houston,  the  *  Big  Bay,'  was  next  brought  forth,  but  as  Acker 
could  neither  be  persuaded  to  mount,  or  take  him  in  charge,  he 
was  restored  to  the  covert  until  a  better  opportunity  for  removing 
him.  To  the  surprise  of  the  young  farmer,  the  Epileptic  was 
equally  firm  in  refusing  to  go  with  him  in  the  wagon.  "  I  don't 
mind  the  rain,"  said  he,  "  it  can't  hurt  me."  "  He  will  get  his 
death,"  said  Leda.  "  Not  he,"  replied  Arthur,  as  Acker  scam- 
pered through  the  woods ;  "  the  water  always  helps  him  in  his 
fits."  While  the  wagon  took  one  course,  he  took  another. 
Little  did  they  suspect  his  route.  A  terrible  feeling  carried  him 
to  Reedy  River — to  a  pitiless  watch  above  that  natural  tomb  in 
which  he  had  buried  his  living  victim. 

Meanwhile,-  what  of  Houston  ?  When  he  recovered  his  con- 
sciousness, the  vault  had  been  closed  upon  him ;  the  flat  mass, 
once  set  in  motion,  had  slid  down  the  smooth  edges  of  the 
upright  sides  with  uninterrupted  progress,  and  now  lay  above 
him,  shutting  out  light  almost  equally  with  hope.  But  a  faint 
glimmering  reached  the  interior  of  the  cell,  from  a  crevice  on 
one  side,  where,  in  consequence  of  some  inequality  of  the  edges, 
the  lid  had  not  settled  fairly  down  upon  it.  It  was  the  side 
opposite  to  that  in  which  his  fingers  had  been  crushed,  and 
where  the  stone  still  maintained  its  hold  upon  the  mutilated 
member.  He  heard  the  whistling  of  the  wind,  the  hoarse  rush 
of  the  waters,  and  the  heavy  fall  of  the  rain  without,  and  a  shud- 
dering sense  of  his  true  situation  rushed  instantly  upon  his  soul. 
For  a  moment  he  sank  back,  appalled,  oppressed;  but  the 
numbing  pain  of  his  injured  hand  and  wrist,  up  to  his  elbow, 
recalled  him  to  the  necessity  of  effort.  Houston  was  a  man  of 


207 

strong  will  and  great  energies.  Though  at  the  first  moment  of 
consciousness  oppressed  and  overcome,  the  outlaw  soon  reco- 
vered himself.  It  was  necessary  that  he  should  do  something 
for  his  extrication.  The  light  shut  out,  if  not  entirely  the  air, 
is  one  of  those  fearful  facts  to  rouse  a  man  in  his  situation  and 
of  his  character,  to  all  his  energies.  But  the  very  first  move- 
ment was  one  to  awaken  him  still  more  sensibly  to  his  dangers. 
Having  arisen  to  grasp  the  sides  of  the  vault,  which,  in  the  place 
where  he  had  laid  his  hand  was  fully  five  feet  high,  his  position 
when  fixed  there,  was  that  of  a  man  partially  suspended  in  the 
air.  His  right  hand  could  barely  touch  the  floor  of  the  chamber. 
His  left  was  utterly  useless.  In  his  position  he  could  not  even 
exert  the  strength  which  he  possessed ;  and,  after  an  ineffectual 
effort,  he  sank  back  again  in  momentary  consternation.  The 
horror  of  that  moment  passed  in  thought, — the  despair  which  it 
occasioned — was  the  parent  of  new  strength.  He  came  to  a 
terrible  decision.  To  avail  himself  of  his  right  hand,  it  was 
necessary  that  he  should  extricate  the  other.  He  had  already 
tried  to  do  so,  by  a  vain  effort  at  lifting  the  massive  lid  of  his 
coffin.  The  heavy  plate  no  longer  vibrated  upon  a  pivot.  It 
had  sunk  into  a  natural  position,  which  each  upright  evenly 
maintained.  The  hand  was  already  lost  to  him.  He  resolved 
that  it  should  not  render  the  other  useless.  With  a  firmness 
which  might  well  excite  admiration,  he  drew  the  couteau  de 
chasse  from  his  bosom,  and  deliberately  smote  off  the  mutilated 
fingers  at  the  joints ;  dividing  the  crushed  parts — bone  and  tendon, 
— from  the  uninjured, — falling  heavily  back  upon  the  stone  floor 
the  moment  the  hand  was  freed.  But  this  time  he  had  not 
fainted,  though  the  operation  tended  to  restore  the  hand,  which 
had  been  deadened  by  the  pressure  and  pain  of  its  position,  to 
something  like  sensibility.  But  such  pain  was  now  but  slightly 
felt;  and,  wrapping  the  hand  up  in  his  handkerchief,  he  prepared 
with  due  courage  for  the  difficult  task  before  him.  But  the  very 
first  effort  almost  convinced  him  of  its  hopelessness.  In  vain 
did  he  apply  the  strength  of  his  muscular  arm,  the  force  of  his 
broad  shoulders,  his  sinewy  and  well-supported  frame.  Forced 


208  THE    GIFT. 

to  crouch  in  his  narrow  limits,  it  was  not  possible  for  him  to 
apply,  to  advantage,  the  strength  which  he  really  possessed; 
and,  from  the  extreme  shallowness  of  his  cell  in  the  lower 
extremity,  he  was  unable  to  address  his  efforts  to  that  part 
where  the  stone  was  thinnest.  At  the  upper  part,  where  he 
could  labour,  the  mass  was  greatly  thicker  than  the  rest ;  and 
it  was  the  weight  of  this  mass,  rather  than  the  strength  of 
Acker, — the  momentum  once  given  it  from  above, — that  carried 
the  plate  along  to  the  foot  of  the  plane.  His  exertions  were 
increased  as  his  strength  diminished — the  cold  sweat  poured 
from  his  brow, — and  toiling  against  conviction — in  the  face  of 
his  increasing  terrors, — he  at  length  sunk  back  in  exhaustion. 
From  time  to  time,  at  brief  intervals,  he  renewed  his  toils,  each 
time  with  new  hope,  each  time  with  a  new  scheme  for  more 
successful  exertion.  But  the  result  was,  on  each  occasion,  the 
same ;  and,  yielding  to  despair,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  bottom 
of  his  cell,  and  called  death  to  his  relief. 

While  thus  prostrate,  with  his  face  pressed  upon  the  chilling 
pavement,  he  suddenly  starts,  almost  to  his  feet,  and  a  new  terror 
seizes  upon  his  soul.  He  is  made  conscious  of  a  new  and 
pressing  danger.  It  is  the  billows  of  the  river — the  torrents 
swollen  above  their  bounds — that  beat  against  the  walls  of  his 
dungeon  ?  Is  it  the  advancing  waters  that  catch  his  eye  glim- 
mering faint  at  his  feet,  as  they  penetrate  the  lower  crevice  of 
the  cell  ?  A  terrible  shudder  shook  his  frame  !  He  cannot 
doubt  this  new  danger,  and  he  who,  a  moment  before,  called 
upon  death  to  relieve  him  from  his  terrors,  now  shouts,  under 
worse  terrors,  at  the  prospect  of  his  near  approach  in  an  unex- 
pected shape.  It  is  necessary  that  he  should  employ  all  his 
strength — that  he  should  make  other  and  more  desperate  efforts. 
He  rises,  almost  erect.  He  applies  both  arms — the  maimed  as 
well  as  the  sound, — almost  unconscious  of  the  difference,  to  the 
lid  of  his  tomb.  "Buried  alive!"  he  cries  aloud — "Buried 
alive !"  and  at  each  cry,  his  sinewy  arms  shoot  up — his  broad 
shoulders  are  raised : — his  utmost  powers,  concentrated  upon  the 
one  point,  in  the  last  effort  of  despair,  must  surely  be  successful. 


THE  GIANT'S  COFFIN.  209 

His  voice  shouts  with  his  straining  sinews.  He  feels  the  mass 
above  him  yielding.  Once  more — and  once  again, — and  still  he 
is  encouraged.  The  lid  vibrates — he  could  not  be  deceived, — 
but  oh  !  how  slightly.  Another  trial — he  moves  it  as  before, 
but  as  his  strength  fails,  his  efforts  relax, — and  it  sinks  down 
heavily  in  its  place.  Breathless,  he  crouches  in  his  cell.  He 
listens!  Is  it  a  footstep? — It  is  a  movement! — the  stones 
fall  about  the  roof  of  his  narrow  dwelling.  A  human  agency 
is  above.  "  Hurrah  !"  he  cries — "  Hurrah  !  Throw  off  the 
stone — crush  it — break  it !  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost !" 
For  a  moment  he  fancies  that  the  movement  above  is  one  in- 
tended for  his  relief.  But  what  mean  these  rolling  stones  !  A 
new  apprehension  possesses  him  in  the  very  moment  of  his 
greatest  hope.  He  rises.  Once  more  he  extends  his  arms,  he 
applies  his  shoulders ;  but  he  labours  now  in  vain.  His  strength 
was  not  less — his  efforts  not  more  diminished — in  this  than  in 
his  former  endeavours.  He  cannot  doubt  the  terrible  truth  ! 
New  stones  have  been  piled  above  his  head.  He  is  doomed ! 
His  utmost  powers  fail  to  move  the  mass  from  its  place.  His 
human  enemy  is  unrelenting.  He  cries  to  him  in  a  voice  of 
equal  inquiry  and  anguish. 

"  Who  is  there  1  what  enemy  ?  who  ?  Speak  to  me !  who  is 
above  me?  Who?" 

Can  it  be?  He  is  answered  by  a  chuckle,  a  fell,  fiendish 
laugh — the  most  terrible  sort  of  answer.  Can  it  be  that  a 
mortal  would  so  laugh  at  such  a  moment  ?  He  tries  to  recall 
those  to  whom  he  has  given  most  occasion  for  vindictiveness  and 
hate.  He  names  *  Arthur  Holt !'  He  is  again  answered  by  a 
chuckle,  and  now  he  knows  his  enemy. 

"  God  of  heaven !"  he  exclaims,  in  the  bitter  anguish  of  his 
discovery,  "  and  can  it  be  that  I  am  doomed  to  perish  by  this 
most  miserable  of  all  my  foes  ?" 

Once  more  he  rushes  against  the  mass  above  him,  but  this 
time  with  his  head  alone.  He  sinks  down  stunned  upon  the 
floor,  and  is  aroused  by  the  water  around  him.  Inch  by  inch 


210  THE    GIFT. 

it  rises.  He  knows  the  character  of  the  stream.  It  will  be 
above  him,  unless  relieved,  in  less  than  an  hour.  The  proud 
and  reckless  outlaw  is  humbled.  He  condescends  to  entreat 
the  wretched  creature  to  whom  he  owes  his  situation.  He  im- 
plores forgiveness — he  promises  reward.  He  begs — he  threatens 
— he  execrates.  He  is  answered  by  a  chuckle  as  before ;  the 
Epileptic  sits  upon  his  coffin-lid,  and  the  doomed  man  can  hear 
his  heels  without,  as  they  beat  time  with  the  winds  and  waters, 
against  the  sides  of  his  tomb.  Meanwhile,  the  water  presses  in 
upon  him — he  feels  its  advance  around  him — it  is  now  about  his 
knees — in  another  moment  it  is  every  where.  It  has  gradually 
ascended  the  plane — it  now  spreads  over  the  entire  floor  of  his 
dungeon.  He  grasps  his  pistols,  which  he  had  laid  down  beside 
him,  and  applies  their  muzzles  to  his  head.  He  is  too  late. 
They  are  covered  with  water,  and  refuse  fire.  His  knife  is 
no  longer  to  be  found.  It  had  dropped  from  his  right  hand 
when  he  smote  off  the  fingers  of  the  left,  and  had  probably 
rolled  down  the  plane  to  the  bottom,  where,  covered  with  water, 
it  is  impossible  to  recover  it.  Hope  within,  and  hope  from 
without,  have  failed  him  equally ;  and,  except  in  prayer,  there 
is  no  refuge  from  the  pang  of  death.  But  prayer  is  not  easy  to 
him  who  has  never  believed  in  the  efficacy  of  its  virtues.  How 
can  he  pray  to  be  forgiven,  who  has  never  been  taught  to  for- 
give. He  tries  to  pray !  The  Epileptic  without,  as  he  stoops 
his  ear,  can  catch  the  fragmentary  plea,  the  spasmodic  adjura- 
tion, the  gasping,  convulsive  utterance,  from  a  throat  around 
which  the  waters  are  already  wreathing  with  close  and  unre- 
laxing  grasp.  Suddenly  the  voice  ceases — there  is  a  hoarse 
murmur — the  struggle  of  the  strong  man  among  the  waters, 
which  press  through  the  crevices  between  the  lid  and  the  sides 
of  the  dungeon.  As  the  convulsion  ceases,  the  Epileptic  starts  to 
his  feet,  with  a  terror  which  he  had  not  felt  before ;  and,  looking 
wildly  behind  him  as  he  ran,  bounded  up  the  sides  of  the  neigh- 
bouring hills. 

Thus  ends  our  legend  of  the  *  Giant's  Coffin.'    Tradition  does 


THE  GIANT'S  COFFIN.  211 

not  tell  us  of  the  farther  fortunes  of  Leda  Houston.  Some  pages 
of  the  chronicle  have  dropped.  It  is  very  certain,  however,  that 
Arthur  Holt,  like  Benedick,  lived  to  be  a  married  man,  and  died 
the  father  of  several  children — the  descendants  of  some  of  whom 
still  live  in  the  same  region.  Of  the  '  Coffin'  itself,  some  frag- 
ments, and,  it  is  thought,  one  of  the  sides,  may  be  shown,  but  it 
was  '  blown  up'  by  the  very  freshet  which  we  have  described, 
and  the  body  of  Houston  drifted  down  to  the  opposite  shore.  It 
was  not  till  long  after  that  Acker  confessed  the  share  which  he 
had  in  the  manner  of  his  death  and  burial. 


THE  ROMAN  GIRL. 

BY  C.  P.  CRANCH. 

DARK-EYED  maid  of  glorious  Italy, 
Nurtured  in  the  sunny  land  of  arts, 

Light  of  summer  thou  hast  shed  on  me, 
But  hast  stolen  away  my  heart  of  hearts. 

Joy  unlocked  for  thou  didst  ray  around  thee — 
Dreams  and  hopes  unbidden  found  a  tongue ; 

Brighter  than  the  warm  skies  that  surround  thee, 
Fonder  than  thy  native  bards  e'er  sung, 

By  yon  ancient  fountain,  where  I  met  thee, 
All  at  once  my  whole  heart  to  thee  went ; 

How,  alas  !  ah,  how  shall  I  forget  thee  ? 
How  take  back  the  heart  I  only  lent  ? 

Slowly  now,  yet  ah !  too  swift,  thou  bearest 
On  thy  head  thy  water-vase  away, 

Turnest.  not  to  look  on  me,  nor  carest 
Though  thou  takest  all  the  light  of  day. 

Slower  yet,  and  yet  for  love  too  swift, 

Like  my  own  hope  thy  radiant  form  departs ; 

Summer  light  thou  takest — 'twas  thy  gift — 
Give,  ah  !  give  me  back  my  heart  of  hearts  ! 


STANZAS. 


BY  ERNEST  HELFENSTE1N. 


1  There  is  a  natural  body,  and  there  is  a  spiritual  body." 

ST.  PAUL. 


I  ASK  not,  love,  in  what  bright  sphere 

The  disembodied  meet, 
If,  fashioned  as  we  see  them  here, 

Eyes,  lips,  or  hands,  shall  greet. 
I  ask  not  if  in  yonder  skies 

Shall  beam,  as  even  now, 
The  tenderness  of  those  dear  eyes, 

The  beauty  of  that  brow. 

I  ask  not  what  the  name  will  be, 

Sweet,  tender,  soul -expressed, 
Thy  lips  shall  utter  unto  me, 

While  leaning  on  my  breast ; 
Nor  whether  we  shall  study  there 

New  words  our  hearts  to  teach, 
For  love,  meseems,  hath  even  here 

But  little  need  of  speech. 

I  hold  communion  still  with  thee, 

Though  severed  and  apart — 
Thought,  feeling,  now  are  prompt  and  free 

To  find  the  kindred  heart ; 
19 


214  THE    GIFT. 

And  it  must  be  when  souls  are  freed 

From  all  material  bar, 
That  love  will  give  them  angel  speed 

To  mingle  from  afar. 

And  souls  conjoined  like  ours,  my  love, 

Can  no  disunion  know — 
The  bliss  below,  the  bliss  above, 

In  one  full  stream  must  flow. 
The  inner  life,  where  love  doth  dwell, 

Knows  neither  time  nor  space ; 
I  who  have  learned  that  soul  so  well, 

Shall  know  its  angel  face. 

Our  love  hath  been  no  common  love, 

With  hopeful  smiles  and  tears — 
Our  faith  is  faith  to  meet  above, 

Our  trust  the  trust  of  years. 
Thus  have  we  struggled  for  the  good, 

Thus  kept  our  spirits  pure ; 
Believing,  in  our  darkest  mood, 

That  love  must  still  endure. 

I  know  not,  love,  where  heaven  may  be, 

With  us  'tis  now  begun  ; 
I  learn  celestial  good  from  thee, 

On  earth  our  souls  are  one ; 
And  being  one  in  this  dim  way, 

Where  faith  so  oft  hath  striven, 
When  love  no  more  shall  weep  and  pray, 

We  must  be  one  in  heaven. 


THE  DEAD  GUEST. 

TRANSLATED   PROM   THE   GERMAN. 
THE    THTJSNELDA.* 

ONE  of  my  friends,  by  the  name  of  Waldrich,  had  left  the  high 
school  hardly  two  years,  and  was  pursuing  the  business  of  an 
unpaid  court-assessor  or  the  like,  in  a  provincial  capital,  when 
the  trumpet  of  the  holy  war  sounded.  The  deliverance  of  Ger- 
many from  the  yoke  of  the  French  conqueror  was  the  great 
object.  A  pious  zeal  animated  the  whole  nation.  Thousands 
of  young  men  flocked  to  the  standard,  for  the  honour  of  Ger- 
many, and  with  the  hope  of  introducing  a  higher  life  into  the 
land  of  Hermann.  My  friend  Waldrich,  shared  largely  in  this 
pious  zeal  and  bright  hope.  In  fine,  he  took  leave  of  his  court- 
president,  and  exchanged  the  pen  for  the  sword. 

As  he  was  a  minor,  without  parents,  and  travelling  money  is 
always  acceptable,  he  wrote  to  his  guardian  for  permission  to 
join  the  patriot-expedition,  and  begged  for  a  hundred  dollars  to 
defray  his  expenses.  His  guardian,  Mr.  Banks — a  rich  manu- 
facturer in  the  city,  or  rather,  market  town,  of  Herbesheim,  in 
whose  house  Waldrich  had  lived  as  a  boy,  until  he  went  to  the 
high  school, — was  a  very  eccentric  old  gentleman. 

He  sent  his  ward  a  letter,  containing  fifteen  gold  louis  d'ors, 
and  which  ran  as  follows : 

*  Thusnelda,  the  spouse  of  the  old  German  hero,  Hermann. 


216  THE    GIFT. 

"  My  friend,  when  you  are  a  year  older  you  may  dispose  of 
yourself  and  your  little  property  as  you  please.  Until  then  pray 
postpone  your  enterprise  for  your  Fatherland,  and  mind  your 
business,  that  you  may  get  office  and  bread,  for  you  will  need 
them  much.  I  know  what  I  owe  to  my  duty  and  to  my  de- 
ceased friend,  your  father.  In  short,  quit  this  nonsense  and  be 
sober.  I  will  not  send  you  a  kreuzer. 

"  Your  obedient  servant,  &c." 

To  this  letter  the  fifteen  gold  louis  d'ors  presented  an  odd, 
though  by  no  means  a  disagreeable,  contradiction ;  a  contradic- 
tion which  Waldrich  would  not  easily  have  reconciled,  had  not 
his  eye  been  caught  by  the  paper  in  which  the  gold  had  been 
wrapt.  He  picked  it  up,  and  read  written  upon  it  the  following : 
"  Do  not  be  disheartened.  Go  for  the  sacred  cause  of  our  poor 
German  land,  and  God  protect  you !  This  from  your  former 
playmate,  Frederika."  This  Frederika  was  no  other  than  the 
young  daughter  of  Mr.  Banks.  Heaven  knows  how  she  had 
contrived  to  slip  the  money  into  her  father's  sealed  letter. 
Waldrich  was  greatly  encouraged,  delighted  more  at  the  heroic 
heart  of  the  German  maiden  than  with  the  gold,  which  Fre- 
derika had  probably  spared  from  her  pocket-money.  He  wrote 
upon  the  spot  to  a  friend  at  Herbesheim,  enclosing  a  few  thankful 
lines  to  the  little  maiden,  (forgetting,  by  the  way,  that  in  four 
years  she  might  have  grown  somewhat,)  and  calling  her  his 
German  Thusnelda.  He  then  started  for  the  Rhine  and  the 
army. 

THE  INCOGNITO. 

I  need  not  here  relate  the  heroic  deeds  of  Waldrich.  Enough 
that  he  had  part  in  the  great  struggle.  Napoleon  was  fortu- 
nately dethroned  and  sent  to  Elba.  Waldrich  chose  to  remain 
in  the  army  as  a  first  lieutenant.  It  was  more  agreeable  to  him 
than  the  desk  of  a  dusty  law-office. 

He  had  been  engaged  in  several  battles  and  skirmishes,  and 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  217 

was  so  fortunate  as  to  escape  without  a  wound.  He  hoped,  as 
one  of  the  defenders  of  his  country,  to  obtain  some  civil  office. 
He  was  highly  esteemed  for  his  intelligence  and  many  good  quali- 
ties, but  the  office  did  not  come.  There  were  too  many  relatives 
of  privy  councillors,  &c.,  to  provide  for.  His  condition,  there- 
fore, underwent  no  change.  He  remained  a  lieutenant.  He 
spent  his  time  in  garrison,  composing  poetry  on  guard,  and 
making  philosophical  reflections  on  parade.  Unexpectedly  his 
company  received  orders  to  go  into  garrison  at  Herbesheim. 

As  the  captain,  a  rich  baron,  was  absent  on  furlough,  Wal- 
drich  returned  to  his  native  place  as  commanding  officer.  How 
did  the  sight  of  the  two  old  church-spires  and  of  the  well-known 
gray  town-gate  touch  his  heart !  The  drums  ceased  before  the 
town-hall.  Two  councillors  appeared  with  the  quarter  billets. 
To  the  commandant  was  assigned  the  most  respectable  house  in 
the  place,  Mr.  Banks's.  The  company  parted  from  one  another 
well  pleased,  for  it  was  just  upon  the  dinner  hour,  and  the 
worthy  citizens,  informed  of  the  quartering  in  season,  had  made 
due  preparations.  Waldrich,  who  had  known  the  two  officials 
in  his  boyhood,  perceived  that  he  was  not  recognised,  for  they 
treated  him  with  great  respect,  and  although  he  declined  it, 
accompanied  him  to  the  house  of  the  manufacturer.  Mr.  Banks 
received  him  in  the  same  way,  and  politely  showed  him  into  a 
handsome  room.  As  soon  as  he  had  changed  his  dress  he  was 
summoned  to  dinner.  He  found  there  besides  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Banks,  and  some  old  clerks  whom  he  recognised,  a  young  lady 
whom  he  did  not  know.  They  spoke  of  the  weather,  and  of  the 
regret  of  the  whole  town  at  the  removal  of  the  former  garrison, 
with  whom  they  had  been  greatly  pleased. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Waldrich,  "  you  will  be  equally  pleased  with 
us.  Let  us  only  feel  ourselves  at  home  among  you." 

In  order  to  be  at  home,  the  commandant,  who  wondered  that 
his  old  playfellow,  to  whom  he  was  still  in  debt  for  the  fifteen 
louis  d'ors,  did  not  make  her  appearance,  asked  his  hostess  if 
she  had  any  children.  "  A  daughter,"  replied  Mrs.  Banks,  and 

19* 


218  THE    GIFT. 

pointed  to  the  young  lady,  who  modestly  cast  down  her  eyes  on 
her  plate. 

Waldrich  turned  towards  her  with  a  look  of  amazement 
hardly  polite.  What  a  superior  creature  had  his  little  play- 
fellow become !  So  he  thought,  but  he  uttered  not  a  word  as 
he  gazed  at  the  modest  girl.  He  made  some  slight  remark  to 
her  parents,  as  well  as  his  extreme  embarrassment  would  allow, 
and  was  greatly  relieved  when  the  old  gentleman  called  to  him, 
"  Take  some  sauce  to  your  dry  plate  there,  Mr.  Commandant." 

Mrs.  Banks  mentioned  a  son  who  had  died  early,  and  of 
whom  she  still  spoke  with  a  true  mother's  heart.  "  Hush, 
mamma !"  cried  the  father,  "  who  knows  but  that  he  might  have 
turned  out  just  such  a  windbag  as  George." 

It  was  now  Wald rich's  turn  to  cast  down  his  eyes,  for  by 
this  same  windbag  George  was  meant  no  other  than  his  own 
humble  self. 

"  But  how  do  you  know,  papa,  that  George  really  was  such 
a  windbag  as  you  represent  ?"  said  Frederika. 

This  question  warmed  the  heart  of  the  Commandant  more  than 
the  glass  of  old  Burgundy  which  he  took  to  hide  his  confusion. 
It  showed  some  trace  of  the  old  friendship.  Such  a  kind  ques- 
tion, from  such  sweet  lips,  and  put  in  such  a  gentle  voice,  might 
well  seem  a  drop  of  honey  to  sweeten  the  bitter  pill  which  Mr. 
Banks  proceeded  to  administer. 

For,  in  order  to  justify  his  opinion,  the  old  gentleman  turned 
to  his  guest  as  umpire,  and  went  on  to  relate  Waldrich's  history 
from  his  cradle  to  the  expedition  for  the  Fatherland,  and  ended 
with  saying,  "  Had  the  fellow  not  become  a  soldier,  he  might 
now  have  been  settled  somewhere  as  law-councillor  or  the  like, 
earning  his  living." 

"  I  only  know,"  replied  the  daughter,  "  that  he  went  with  a 
good  heart  for  the  holy  cause." 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  of  holy  causes,"  cried  Mr.  Banks.  "  Where 
is  the  holy  cause  now,  I  ask  1  The  French  are  driven  away, 
very  true.  But  the  holy  kingdom  is,  nevertheless,  going  to  the 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  219 

deuce.  The  cursed  English  creep  in  every  where  with  their 
wares,  and  we  holy  Germans  will  come  to  be  a  parcel  of  holy 
beggars.  The  government  knows  nothing  and  cares  nothing 
about  trade.  The  world  is  just  where  it  was  before,  and  rather 
worse.  I  tell  thee,  Freddy,  hush !  Thou  dost  not  understand 
these  things." 

Waldrich  perceived  that  Mr.  Banks  was  still  the  same  lively, 
irritable  old  man,  with  whom,  however,  it  was  impossible  to  get 
angry.  As  now  a  decision  was  to  be  pronounced,  the  Comman- 
dant was  so  prudent  and  polite  as  to  concede  the  father  to  be 
right  as  to  the  result  of  the  holy  cause,  while,  not  to  condemn 
himself  utterly,  he  agreed  with  the  daughter  as  to  the  good  heart 
with  which  George  had  gone  to  the  wars. 

"  See,  now,"  cried  the  old  man,  "  Mr.  Commandant  is  more 
cunning  than  Master  Paris  with  the  three  silly  ladies  at  Troy. 
He  cuts  the  apple  in  two,  and  gives  us  each  a  bit.  It's  all  very 
well." 

"  No,  Mr.  Banks,  your  George  erred,  if  he  erred,  like  some 
thousands  of  Germans,  and,  for  example,  like  myself.  Our 
armies,  you  know,  were  annihilated,  and  the  people  were  forced 
to  rise  in  their  own  behalf.  It  was  no  time  to  hesitate.  Life 
and  every  thing  was  to  be  risked  for  the  throne.  But  our  wisest 
statesmen  are  no  conjurers.  They  cannot  instantly  put  things 
to  rights  again.  I,  for  one,  do  not  regret  what  I  have  done." 

"  With  all  respect,"  said  Mr.  Banks,  bowing,  "  with  all  re- 
spect, Mr.  Commandant,  you  are  an  exception.  But  still  it 
seems  to  me  rather  droll  that  we  citizens,  merchants,  and  so  on, 
must  give  our  money  for  twenty  years  to  support  in  peace  an 
army  of  some  thousands  of  idle  defenders  of  the  throne,  and 
clothe  them  in  silk  and  velvet  and  gold,  and  then  in  the  twenty- 
first  year,  when  these  same  defenders  are  all  cut  in  pieces, 
must  ourselves  rise  and  bring  the  wheel  back  again  into  the 
track." 

By  such  conversation,  an  intimacy  was  speedily  established. 
To  the  Commandant,  his  incognito  was  at  times  very  agreeable, 
yet  he  wished  to  put  an  end  to  it. 


220  THE    GIFT. 

And  it  was  ended  sooner  than  he  thought.  Mrs.  Banks,  a 
quiet  woman,  who  said  little,  but  thought  much,  had,  at  table,  as 
soon  as  she  heard  Waldrich's  voice,  recalled  his  boyish  features 
and  recognised  him.  His  confusion  when  the  windbag  George 
was  mentioned,  confirmed  her  suspicions.  She  said  not  a  word. 
It  was  her  way.  No  lady  had  so  little  of  the  feminine  art  of 
carrying  the  thoughts  on  the  tongue.  She  let  things  take  their 
course,  listened,  and  drew  her  own  conclusions.  Hence,  unob- 
served, she  could  conduct  all  affairs  without  many  words ;  even 
her  choleric  husband,  least  inclined  to  obey  her,  did,  in  fact, 
obey  her  the  most.  That  Waldrich  did  not  discover  himself 
seemed  to  her  suspicious.  She  wished  silently  to  find  out  his 
reasons. 

Waldrich  had,  in  fact,  no  reasons,  but  sought  only  an  occasion 
to  surprise  the  family.  When  called  to  tea,  he  found  no  one  in 
the  room  but  Frederika.  He  approached  her.  "  Lady,"  said  he, 
"  I  have  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness  to  my  friend  Waldrich." 

"  You  know  him,  then,  Mr.  Commandant  ?" 

"  He  thought  of  you  often,  but  not  oftener  than  you  deserve." 

"  He  was  brought  up  here.  He  is  a  little  ungrateful,  for 
never,  since  he  left  us,  has  he  made  us  a  visit.  Does  he  behave 
well  ?  Is  he  esteemed  ?" 

"  There  is  nothing  against  him.  No  one  has  so  much  reason 
to  complain  of  him  as  you,  lady." 

"  Then  he  must  be  a  good  man,  for  I  have  nothing  against 
him." 

"  But  he  is  certainly — I  know  it — your  debtor." 

"  He  owes  me  nothing." 

"But  he  used  to  speak  of  some  money  which  he  received." 

"  But  I  gave  it  to  him,  I  did  not  lend  it." 

"  Is  he  then  less  your  debtor,  Thusnelda  ?" 

At  this  word,  Frederika  turned  full  upon  the  Commandant. 
A  light  broke  upon  her.  She  blushed  at  the  recognition. 

"  It  is  not  possible !"  she  cried  with  joy. 

"  Yes,  dear  Frederika,  if  I  may  still  call  you  so — ah !  the 
sweet  thou  I  may  no  longer  use — the  debtor,  the  sinner,  stands 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  221 

before  you.  Forgive  him.  Had  he  sooner  known  what  he  now 
knows,  he  would  have  come  a  thousand  times  to  Herbesheim." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Banks  entered.  Frederika  hastened 
toward  her.  "  Do  you  know,  mamma,  who  this  is  ?" 

The  face  of  Mrs.  Banks  was  suffused  with  a  slight  blush,  as 
she  said  with  a  smile,  "  George  Waldrich." 

"  How,  mamma,  you  knew  it  and  never  told  us  !"  said  Frede- 
rika, who  could  not  recover  from  her  surprise,  as  she  compared 
the  stout  soldier  in  his  uniform  with  the  schoolboy  of  former 
days.  "  Yes,  truly,"  she  added,  "  it  is  he  !  Where  were  my 
eyes?" 

Waldrich  kissed  the  hand  of  his  worthy  foster-mother,  and 
begged  her  forgiveness  for  never  having  visited  her  since  he 
came  of  age.  He  insisted  that  it  really  was  not  ingratitude,  still 
less  was  it  indifference ;  in  fact,  he  could  not  tell  what  had  kept 
him  away. 

"About  the  same  reason,"  Mrs.  Banks  gently  said,  "which 
keeps  the  spirits  of  the  departed  from  wishing  to  return  to  the 
caterpillar  state  of  poor  mortality.  Here  you  were  an  orphan, 
a  stranger.  We  could  not  make  you  forget  that.  You  were 
a  boy,  often  faulty.  There  was  nothing  to  draw  you  back  to  a 
place  which  had  been  to  you  a  school  rather  than  a  home.  As 
soon  as  you  were  free,  a  man,  you  felt  yourself  happier  any 
where  than  here." 

Waldrich's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "Ah,  you  are  still  the 
same  dear  wise  mother  as  ever !  You  are  right.  But  now 
Herbesheim  is  indeed  a  home  to  me.  Had  I  only  come  sooner ! 
Give  me  again  my  place  in  your  heart." 

Mrs.  Banks  had  no  time  to  reply,  as  Mr.  Banks  entered  and 
proceeded  directly  to  the  tea-table.  When  Frederika  told  him 
who  his  guest  was,  he  started  and  immediately  extended  his 
hand  to  the  Commandant,  and  said,  "  Heartily  welcome,  Mr. 
Waldrich.  You  were  but  a  pigmy,  and  you  have  grown  out  of 
my  recollection.  That  riband  there  in  the  button -hole — what 
does  that  signify  ?" 


222  THE    GIFT. 

"  That  I,  with  my  company,  took  a  redoubt,  and  kept  it 
against  three  or  four  assaults." 

"  How  many  men  did  it  cost  ?" 

"  Twelve  dead,  and  seventeen  wounded." 

"  Nine  and  twenty  souls  then  for  the  eighth  of  an  ell  of  silk 
riband !  Cursed  dear  goods,  those  which  the  prince  sells — 
might  be  got  in  any  shop  for  a  couple  of  kreuzers.  Let  us  be 
seated.  Frederika,  help  us ; — got  much  booty,  eh  ?  How  stand 
the  finances  ?" 

Waldrich  laughingly  shrugged  his  shoulders :  "  We  did  not 
take  arms  for  booty,  but  for  our  Fatherland." 

"  Excellent !  I  like  such  sentiments.  Stick  to  that,  since 
your  pockets  are  empty." 


THE  DEAD  GUEST. 

As  soon  as  it  was  known  who  the  Commandant  was,  all  his 
old  acquaintances  gathered  round  him.  And  in  all  companies 
he  was  the  best  companion,  spirited,  witty,  a  pleasant  narrator, 
played  on  the  piano  and  flute,  danced  divinely,  and  the  ladies 
admitted  that  he  was  handsome  and  very  dangerous.  However, 
just  at  this  time  no  lady  in  Herbesheim,  whether  pretty  or  other- 
wise, aimed  either  to  be  conquered  or  to  make  conquests.  On 
the  contrary,  every  one  guarded  her  heart  with  unusual  care. 
The  cause  of  this  reserve  no  one  could  guess,  who  did  not  live 
in  Herbesheim,  or  who  was  unacquainted  with  the  manuscript 
chronicles  of  the  town,  and  when  known  it  was  as  hard  to  be 
believed  as  it  was  true. 

In  this  year  occurred  the  centennial  festival  or  fast  of  the 
so-called  Dead  Guest — a  very  dangerous  person,  especially  to 
all  engaged  ladies.  No  one  knew  the  exact  history  of  this 
Guest.  But  the  story  went  that  there  was  a  ghost,  who  once  in 
every  hundred  years  came  to  the  town  of  Herbesheim,  dwelt 
there  through  the  Advent  season,  making  court  to  all  about  to  be 
brides,  and  ending  with  wringing  their  necks  and  turning  their 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  223 

heads  round  on  their  shoulders.  In  the  morning  they  were 
found  dead  in  bed,  with  their  faces  turned  to  their  backs.  What 
distinguished  this  ghost  from  all  his  tribe  was,  that  he  did  not 
come  in  the  lawful  hour  for  ghosts,  at  night,  but  in  clear  day- 
light, in  the  form  of  a  real  man,  and  went  about  fashionably 
dressed  like  a  true  son  of  earth.  The  Guest  was  to  have  plenty 
of  money,  and,  what  was  worst,  if  he  could  find  no  bride  of 
another,  he  took  the  form  of  a  lover,  merely  to  be  able,  when 
with  his  flatteries  he  had  turned  the  heads  of  the  maidens  a  little, 
to  turn  them  entirely  round  at  night.  No  one  knew  whence  the 
legend  arose.  In  the  parish  register,  one  might  read  the  names 
of  three  maidens,  who  had  died  at  Advent  time  in  the  year  17 — . 
In  the  margin,  as  a  gloss,  appeared  these  words :  "  With  their 
faces  turned  to  their  backs  as  a  hundred  years  ago ;  God  have 
mercy  on  their  souls."  Although  this  comment  was  no  proof  of 
the  truth  of  the  legend,  yet  it  showed  that  the  story  was  more 
than  a  hundred  years  old ;  and  that  something  of  the  same  sort 
must  have  happened  two  hundred  years  before,  because  the 
church  books  intimated  as  much.  The  old  registers  were,  un- 
fortunately, lost  in  a  fire  in  the  Spanish  war  of  the  succession. 

But,  however  this  may  be,  the  legend  was  known  to  all. 
Every  one  pronounced  it  a  ridiculous  nursery  tale,  and  yet 
every  one  was  looking  forward,  I  may  say,  with  anxious  cu- 
riosity, to  the  next  Advent,  in  order  to  learn  what  the  legend 
meant.  For  even  the  wisest  thought  that  there  are  many  things 
in  heaven  and  earth  not  dreamed  of  in  our  philosophy. 

The  most  incredulous  were  the  young  gentlemen,  who  made 
themselves  right  merry  on  the  occasion.  The  ladies  affected  to 
be  unconcerned,  but  it  was  in  great  part  affectation.  In  secret 
they  said  :  "  You  young  gentlemen  may  well  laugh,  for  it  is  not 
your  heads  and  necks  that  are  in  danger." 

No  one  remarked  the  effect  of  this  superstition  more  than  the 
old  parson,  for  there  was  a  great  hurry  to  have  all  love  affairs 
settled  before  the  first  Advent,  and  where  there  *was  no  hope  of  a 
speedy  wedding  some  love  affairs  had  been  broken  off. 


224  THE    GIFT. 

One  may  now  understand  what  the  fair  Herbesheimers  thought 
when  they  found  our  friend  so  captivating.  They  were  alarmed 
at  the  literal  interpretation  of  the  legend  and  at  the  approaching 
visit  of  the  Dead  Guest.  We  must  therefore  pardon  the  somewhat 
strange  secret  oath  which  they  took,  not  to  fall  in  love  before  or 
during  Advent,  and  if  an  angel  came  from  heaven,  to  look  upon 
him  with  no  more  kindness  than  upon  any  Christian  man. 

I  do  not  know  whether  the  fair  Frederika  Banks  joined  with 
the  Advent  nuns  of  Herbesheim  in  this  oath.  But  so  much  is 
certain,  that  she  looked  upon  Waldrich  with  no  more  favour  than 
any  other,  for  she  was  gracious  to  all. 

The  Commandant  passed  at  the  Bankses'  a  true  Paradise 
summer.  His  old  boyish  relations  were  renewed.  He  called 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Banks  father  and  mother.  He  commanded,  not 
only  his  company,  but  also  in  the  house,  had  a  word  in  all 
affairs,  and  helped  to  decide  all  disputes.  Also  between  him  and 
Frederika  the  familiar  tone  of  their  childish  days  was  without 
design  resumed.  Sometimes,  as  formerly,  they  quarrelled  ;  and 
with  the  polite  you,  there  escaped  occasionally  a  thou,  not  only 
the  thou  of  affection,  but  also  the  peevish  thou  of  petulance. 

The  ladies  in  the  place  made  their  remarks  upon  Waldrich's 
situation  in  the  family.  For  the  ladies  of  Herbesheim  shared  in 
the  common  belief,  that  a  young  man  of  eight-and-twenty  and  a 
girl  of  twenty  could  not  possibly  live  four  weeks  under  the  same 
roof  without  having  the  heartbeat  when  they  met.  But  the  fair 
Herbesheimers  were  nearly  convinced  that  here  was  an  exception 
to  the  rule,  for  no  look,  no  gesture,  no  peculiar  tone  of  the  voice, 
betrayed  any  thing  but  the  simple  affection  belonging  to  the  age 
of  little  boys  and  girls. 

The  sharp  eye  of  Mrs.  Banks  would  soonest  have  detected  the 
mischief — women  have  a  peculiar  sense  therefor — but  she  dis- 
covered nothing  and  kept  quiet.  Mr.  Banks  never  dreamed  of 
such  possibilities.  He  had  never  in  his  whole  life  had  any  idea 
of  what  the  world  calls  love,  and  would  just  as  soon  have  feared 
that  his  daughter  would  go  crazy  as  that  she  should  fall  in  love 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  225 

with  a  young  man  for  his  own  sake.  He  knew  that  Mrs.  Banks 
had  been  engaged  to  him  before  she  had  ever  seen  his  face. 
And  he  had  engaged  himself,  so  soon  as  he  knew  that  his  in- 
tended was  a  brave  maiden,  and  would  bring  him  830,000  and 
the  prospect  of  more  by  inheritance. 

This  mode  of  proceeding  in  marriage  matters,  which  his  expe- 
rience justified,  for  he  was  one  of  the  happiest  of  husbands, 
seemed  to  him  most  reasonable.  Hitherto  Mrs.  Banks  and 
Frederika  had  found  no  special  reason  to  object  to  his  views. 
But  Frederika  was  now  twenty.  The  old  man  bethought  him- 
self that  he  received  his  wife  when  she  was  even  ycunger.  He 
began  to  think  seriously  of  having  his  daughter  married.  Mrs. 
Banks  agreed  with  him  here,  too,  and  Frederika  had  nothing  to 
object.  A  young  lady  of  twenty ! — how  pleasantly  the  words 
sound — there  is  something  tender  in  them.  A  young  maiden  of 
twenty ! — one  can  scarcely  say  it,  without  asking,  *  How  long 
will  she  remain  young?'  Mr.  Banks  felt  this,  and  made  his 
preparations  accordingly. 


THE  BIRTHDAY. 

It  was  the  custom  in  Mr.  Banks's  house  to  celebrate  family 
festivals.  On  these  occasions  the  book-keeper,  the  foreman, 
and  the  cashier  of  the  factory  were  added  to  the  family,  and 
their  birthdays  were  likewise  observed.  It  is  no  wonder  then 
that  the  birthday  of  our  lieutenant  should  be  commemorated. 

On  such  a  day  no  one  was  allowed,  such  was  the  rule,  to  give 
even  so  much  as  an  ill-natured  look  to  the  individual  whose 
birthday  it  happened  to  be,  or  to  refuse  him  any  fair  request. 
Every  one  was  to  make  him  a  present,  great  or  small.  On  this 
day,  the  dinner  was  more  costly  and  was  served  on  silver.  The 
silver  candlesticks  were  in  use,  and  the  person  honoured  took 
the  usual  place  of  the  head  of  the  family.  The  gifts  and  tokens 
were  presented  before  dinner.  The  health  of  the  distinguished 

20 


226  THE    GIFT. 

one  was  drunk  with  full  glasses,  and  after  the  table  was  removed 
he  received  from  every  one  of  the  company  an  embrace  and  a 
kiss. 

On  Waldrich's  birthday  every  thing  went  on  in  its  usual  regu- 
lar way.  When  he  entered  the  dining-room,  the  company  were 
all  assembled.  Mr.  Banks  advanced  towards  him  with  good 
wishes  and  handed  him  something  wrapt  up  in  silk  paper.  It 
was  a  handsome  draft  payable  at  sight.  Mrs.  Banks  followed. 
She  brought  him  a  complete  captain's  uniform.  Then  came 
Frederika  with  a  silver  plate,  upon  which  lay  half  a  dozen  fine 
cravats  made  by  her  own  hands.  Upon  these  lay  a  letter  with 
the  great  seal  of  his  regiment,  and  directed  to  Captain  George 
Waldrich.  The  lieutenant  started  as  he  broke  the  seal  and  saw 
a  captain's  commission.  He  was  to  remain  captain,  and  his 
predecessor  was  advanced  to  the  dignity  of  major. 

"  But,  my  honourable  Mr.  Captain,"  said  Frederika,  with  her 
sweet  smile,  "  don't  be  angry  with  me.  The  letter  came  a  week 
ago  during  your  absence,  and  I  kept  it  for  to-day.  I  am  punished 
enough  by  my  anxiety  lest  you  should  hear  of  the  appointment 
in  some  other  way." 

Waldrich  was  not  in  the  humour  to  be  angry.  In  his  confu- 
sion he  hardly  had  a  word  to  say  to  the  others  who  gave  him 
their  good  wishes  and  tokens. 

"  But  the  best  of  it  is,"  cried  Father  Banks,  "  they  let  the 
Captain  remain  here.  I  too  suffered  a  sort  of  agony  lest  George 
should  be  ordered  away.  But  come,  Mr.  Book-keeper,  into  the 
cellar,  march  !  I  say,  to  No.  9,  to  the  old  Neckar."  The  book- 
keeper obeyed. 

It  was  very  apparent  how  fond  Mr.  Banks  was  of  his  former 
ward,  sputtering  out,  in  the  fulness  of  his  joy,  many  droll  sal- 
lies. 

"  Now,  my  dear  little  Captain,"  cried  the  merry  old  man,  "  I 
thought,  God  knows,  that  the  draft  I  gave  you  there  would  serve 
for  a  travelling  penny.  But  I'm  vexed  that  I  was  so  stingy. 
Ought  to  have  given  you  something  better.  Remember  the  rule. 


THE   DEAD    GUEST.  227 

You  can  ask  any  favour.  I  must  not  refuse  it.  So  out  with  it. 
Ask  what  you  will,  you  shall  have  it,  even  though  it  should  be 
my  new  peruke  or  the  like." 

The  Captain's  eyes  were  wet.   "  I  have  nothing  more  to  ask." 

"  Come,  quick,  bethink  yourself !  The  chance  will  not  come 
again  for  a  year,"  cried  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Then,  permit  me,  dear  father,  to  give  you  a  hearty,  thankful 
kiss." 

"  With  a  right  good  will,  then,  boy  of  my  heart !  that  thou 
shalt  have  readily  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Banks.  Both  sprang  from 
their  seats,  fell  upon  one  another's  necks,  and  then  parted  with 
moved  hearts.  Their  emotions  extended  to  all  present.  That 
Mr.  Banks  had  given  the  thou  to  the  Captain  was  noteworthy. 

But  Mr.  Banks  was  the  first  to  recover  his  composure. 
"  Enough  of  this  nonsense !"  said  he ;  "  let  us  talk  of  some- 
thing rational."  He  raised  his  glass  and  commanded  all  to  fill : 
"  Where  there's  a  man,  there  should  be  a  woman.  Where 
there's  a  captain  there  should  be  a  lady-captain.  So  here's  long 
life  to  her  !  May  she  bloom  and  grow  green  and  the  like." 

"  May  she  be  pious,  good,  and  domestic  !"  said  Mrs.  Banks  as 
she  lifted  her  glass. 

"  Mother,  like  you?  answered  the  Captain. 

"  And  the  loveliest  in  the  world  !"  said  Frederika,  chiming  in. 

"  Lady,  like  you?  added  he  thankfully. 

Frederika  shook  her  head  at  him,  and  smiling  half  angrily, 
half  archly,  shook  her  finger  at  him  also  :  "  We  must  allow  the 
birthday  prince  in  many  things  to-day,  which  at  another  time 
would  not  be  allowed  to  pass  without  punishment." 

The  book-keeper  and  company  made  their  own  innocent  re- 
marks upon  these  significant  indications.  First,  the  bold  offer 
which  Mr.  Banks  had  made  to  the  Captain  to  ask  what  he  would, 
which  offer  Waldrich  had  so  stupidly  failed  to  understand  ;  then 
the  health  drank  to  the  future  lady-captain.  Truly  the  favourite 
of  fortune  must  be  blind  not  to  see  what  Father  Banks  would 
evidently  be  at. 

"  I  really  believe,"  whispered  the  foreman  to  the  cashier  as 


228  THE    GIFT. 

they  rose  from  the  table,  "  the  affair  is  settled.  What  do  you 
think  ?  There's  a  match." 

"  It  troubles  me,"  whispered  the  cashier  in  reply,  "  the  Dead 
Guest — I  can  think  of  nothing  else." 

The  ceremony  of  the  birthday  kiss  commenced.  Waldrich 
received  from  all  an  embrace  and  a  kiss.  He  approached  Fre- 
derika.  With  easy  politeness  they  were  about  to  exchange  the 
required  kiss.  But  just  as  they  gave  it,  they  looked  with  a  sudden 
earnestness  into  one  another's  eyes,  as  if  they  would  fathom 
each  other's  hearts.  Once  more  their  lips  neared,  and  the  kiss 
was  repeated,  as  if  the  first  went  for  nothing.  I  do  not  know 
whether  any  one  observed  it,  but  I  do  know  that  Mamma  Banks 
cast  her  eye  down  upon  the  diamond  ring  on  her  finger ;  and 
Waldrich  let  himself  be  kissed  by  the  cashier,  &c.,  and  one 
kiss  from  each  sufficed.  Indeed  he  seemed  as  if  his  broad  chest 
was  somewhat  too  narrow  for  his  heart.  And  Frederika  retired 
to  a  window.  Yet  all  this  was  soon  over.  Two  carriages  stood 
at  the  door,  and  the  party  closed  the  day  with  a  drive  into  the 
country. 


ANOTHER  BIRTHDAY. 

The  next  day  the  old  order  of  things  was  resumed.  The 
new  Captain  had  various  affairs  to  attend  to  that  made  an  ab- 
sence of  some  weeks  necessary.  He  left  the  house  of  the 
Bankses,  as  if  it  had  been  his  father's.  Waldrich  and  Frede- 
rika bade  each  other  goodbye  as  they  were  wont  to  do  when 
she  went  to  a  party  or  he  to  the  parade.  Only  she  reminded  him 
that  he  must  not  forget  her  birthday,  the  tenth  of  November. 
The  family  regretted  that  they  must  lose  him  for  a  while. 
"  Yet,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "  let  not  a  hair  turn  gray  upon 
it, — sooner  or  later  we  must  all  go  into  another  garrison  above 
there." 

Frederika's  birthday  was  of  course  observed  with  the  cus- 
tomary solemnities.  Waldrich  brought  her  from  the  Residence  a 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  229 

new  harp  of  exquisite  workmanship,  and  some  choice  music.  A 
broad  rose-coloured  riband  fluttered  over  the  bright  strings. 

Father  Banks  was  in  a  high  state  of  felicity.  He  went  up 
and  down  the  dining-room,  rubbing  his  hands  and  laughing  to 
himself,  until  Mrs.  Banks,  who  followed  him  with  wondering 
eyes,  could  not  help  whispering  softly  to  the  Captain:  "You 
may  rely  upon  it,  papa  has  got  some  pretty  surprise  for  us." 
The  shrewd  matron  was  not  mistaken. 

After  the  accustomed  congratulations  the  company  took  their 
places  at  the  table.  When  Frederika  removed  her  napkin  from 
her  plate,  she  found  underneath,  a  costly  pearl  necklace,  a 
splendid  diamond  ring,  and  a  letter.  The  maiden,  in  joyful  sur- 
prise, took  up  the  beautiful  ornaments  and  examined  them  with 
evident  pleasure.  Pearls  and  ring  went  round  the  table  that  all 
might  admire  them.  And  Frederika  opened  the  letter  and  read 
it.  Her  face  betrayed  the  greatest  surprise.  Mr.  Banks  swam 
in  delight.  The  mother  with  anxious  curiosity  studied  the 
lengthened  features  of  her  daughter. 

Frederika  remained  silent  for  a  while,  and  at  last  laid  the  letter 
down. 

"  Let  the  letter  go  round  too,"  cried  the  enraptured  father. 

Embarrassed  and  silent,  she  handed  the  letter  to  her  mother. 

"  Now,  my  darling,"  cried  the  old  man,  "  has  the  surprise 
taken  thy  breath  away?  Does  not  papa  know  how  to  do  things?" 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Von  Hahn  ?"  asked  Frederika  with  a  confused 
look. 

"  Who  should  he  be  but  the  son  of  my  old  friend,  the  cele- 
brated banker.  The  old  man  has  had  better  success  than  I. 
He  has  retired  and  his  son  takes  the  whole  business,  and  thou 
shalt  be  chick  to  the  young  bird." 

Mrs.  Banks  shook  her  head  in  silent  disapproval  and  handed 
the  letter  to  the  Commandant.  It  ran  thus : 

"  On  your  birthday,  lovely  lady,  a  stranger  intrudes  upon  you, 
alas !  only  in  spirit.  The  physician  has  forbidden  me  to  travel 
in  this  bad  weather.  Could  I  only  fly  to  Herbesheim  and  there 

20* 


230  THE    GIFT. 

plead  for  your  hand  and  complete  the  connexion  which  our  good 
fathers  have  agreed  upon !  Adored  lady  !  with  the  first  mild 
weather,  although  still  an  invalid,  I  shall  hasten  to  you.  I  sue 
for  your  hand,  but  not,  I  well  know,  for  your  heart.  That  can 
only  give  itself.  But  let  me  at  least  cherish  the  hope  of  being 
able  to  deserve  it.  Permit  me  to  subscribe  myself  in  love  and 
homage  your  devoted 

"  EDW.  VON  HAHN." 

The  Commandant  gazed  at  the  letter.  He  looked  not  like  a 
reader  but  rather  a  dreamer.  In  the  meantime  Mr.  Banks  was 
waiting  impatiently  for  Frederika  to  throw  off  her  maidenlike 
affectation  and  confess  at  once  how  happy  she  was. 

"  But,  papa,  how  can  I  do  that  1  I  have  never  seen  Mr.  Von 
Hahn." 

"  Little  fool !  I  understand  you.  But  I  can  set  thy  heart  at 
rest  on  that  point.  He  is  a  fine,  slender,  tall  youth,  a  right  deli- 
cate milkface,  somewhat  weakly  from  growing  too  fast." 

"  When  have  you  seen  him,  papa  ?" 

"  When  I  was  last  at  the  Residence,  let's  see,  some  ten  or 
twelve  years  ago,  when  I  brought  thee  that  pretty  doll,  almost 
as  big  as  thou.  The  young  Hahn  can  scarcely  be  much  over 
twenty.  Thou  must  see  him." 

"  But,  papa,  I  wish  I  had  seen  him  before  receiving  this  letter." 

"  It's  a  stupid  chance  that  he  could  not  come  himself,  as  we 
old  folks  had  planned  it.  When  I  was  engaged  to  mamma,  I 
came  myself.  Mamma,  what  sayest  thou  ?  The  secret  almost 
burnt  my  heart  out — would  have  told  thee  at  once,  but  I  know 
you  women.  The  secret  would  have  been  out,  and  so  we  should 
have  lost  this  pretty  surprise." 

Mrs.  Banks  replied  somewhat  seriously  :  "  Thou  hast  done 
well,  papa,  not  to  draw  me  into  the  plan.  The  thing  is  done. 
Heaven  bless  it." 

"  But  consider,  mamma,  the  choice,  I  say.  We  manufacturers, 
mamma,  with  all  our  trumpery,  are  nothing  but  trumpery.  But  a 
banker  is  every  thing.  Old  Von  Hahn  has  only  to  nod  his  head 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  231 

and  wink,  and  all  is  instantly  in  motion.  The  English,  with  the 
devil  to  help  them,  can't  get  round  such  a  man." 

"  I  consider  the  choice  very  good,"  said  Mrs.  Banks  very 
seriously,  and  cast  down  her  eyes. 

Frederika  looked  anxiously  at  her  mother  and  sighed :  "  And 
thou,  too,  mamma  ?" 

"  Thunder,  Captain !  haven't  you  read  the  letter  enough  ?  Your 
dinner  is  getting  cold,"  cried  Mr.  Banks. 

Waldrich  roused  himself,  cast  one  more  look  at  the  letter, 
threw  it  hastily  from  him,  and  applied  himself  to  his  plate. 

Mr.  Banks  was  vexed  that  Frederika  did  not  get  more  cheerful. 
He  went  on,  trying  to  jest,  but  no  one  fell  into  his  humour. 

At  last,  with  some  vexation,  he  said  to  Frederika,  "  Tell  me, 
now,  Freddy,  have  I  hit  it  or  have  I  not  1  Just  tell  papa.  But 
thou  wilt  pipe  another  song,  my  bird,  when  young  Hahn  comes." 

"  That  may  be,  dear  papa,"  replied  Frederika.  "  How  could  I 
doubt  thy  kind  intentions  ?  Let  this  declaration  suffice  thee." 

"  Thanks  for  that,  my  pet ;  so  must  a  reasonable  maiden  think. 
Fill  your  glasses.  Long  life  to  the  bride,  and  the  bridegroom 
too  !  A  right  handsome  man.  Only  once  see  him.  I  warrant 
thee  thou  wilt  fall  on  thy  father's  neck  and  thank  him." 

"It  is  possible,  papa,  but  until  I  have  seen  him,  I  pray  thee, 
— and  thou  knowest  the  law  of  the  birthday, — I  pray  thee,  not 
another  word  about  him,  until  I  have  seen  the  stranger." 

Mr.  Banks  knit  his  brows,  and  said  at  last,  "  With  permission, 
lady  daughter,  that's  a  silly  request.  However,  it  shall  pass." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Banks,  "  no  reproaches  for  Frederika. 
Thou  must  remember  it  is  her  birthday.  No  one  must  vex  her." 

"Right,  mamma !"  replied  the  old  man,  "he  will  be  here  soon. 
The  moon  soon  changes  and  then  the  weather  will  clear  up." 

With  this  the  conversation  took  another  turn,  and  in  a  little 
while  flowed  on  with  its  former  liveliness.  Something  rather 
frosty  hung  about  the  Captain.  Frederika  cast  a  searching  look 
at  him  now  and  then.  And  when  by  chance  their  eyes  met,  it 
seemed  as  if  their  hearts  were  asking  secret  questions  of  one 
another.  The  others  chatted  on,  and  papa  got  to  be  as  funny 


232  THE    GIFT. 

as  ever.  When  the  moment  came  for  the  usual  kiss  to  be  given, 
Waldrich  and  Frederika  happened  to  be  standing  face  to  face 
before  Father  Banks. 

"  Hark'ee,  Freddy,"  said  the  mischievous  old  man,  "  just 
imagine  our  George  to  be  a  certain  somebody,  whom  I  must  not 
name — just  imagine  it,  and  then  the  kiss  will  be  no  ordinary  one. 
Try  it,  little  simpleton  !" 

Waldrich  and  Frederika  stood  before  each  other ;  eye  lost  in 
eye,  they  drew  nearer  for  the  kiss.  The  old  man  sprang  aside 
with  a  comic  motion  to  see  it.  It  was  given.  Waldrich  grew 
pale  and  Frederika's  eyes  were  dim.  Yet  once  again  their  lips 
joined.  And  then  they  seemed  anxious  to  retreat.  But  once 
more  their  lips  hastily  united.  Then,  weeping  aloud,  Frederika 
turned  aside,  and  Waldrich  went  towards  the  window. 

The  old  man  looked  right  and  left,  and  stood  like  one  petrified. 
"  The  deuce  take  it !  What  ails  the  child  ?"  cried  he. 

Mrs.  Banks  silently  cast  her  eyes  down  upon  her  diamond 
ring.  She  saw  what  was  the  matter  and  said,  "  Papa,  spare  the 
maiden  now.  Let  her  have  her  cry  out." 

"  But — but — "  sputtered  Mr.  Banks,  and  ran  to  Frederika, 
"  What's  the  matter  ?  Why  dost  thou  weep  ?" 

She  replied  that  she  did  not  herself  know. 

"  Ah,  that's  all  make-believe,"  exclaimed  he ;  "  something  has 
happened  to  thee.  Art  thou  vexed  ?  Has  mamma — " 

"  No." 

"  Or  the  Captain,  has  he  said  any  thing  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Thunder,  is  it  I  then  ?  What !  Is  it  I  ?" 

Mrs.  Banks  took  his  hand  and  drew  him  away,  saying,  "  Papa, 
thou  hast  forgotten  thy  word.  She  is  hurt.  Thou  hast  forgotten 
her  request  and  again — " 

"  Reminded  her  of  a  certain  somebody  !  Right — I  ought  not 
to  have  done  it.  It  shall  not  happen  again,  Freddy." 

Frederika  recovered  her  composure,  and  after  a  while  the 
evening  passed  off  pleasantly. 

Mr.  Banks  kept  his  word.     Not  a  syllable  was  breathed  of  a 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  233 

certain  somebody.  Regularly,  morning,  noon,  and  evening,  Mr. 
Banks  went  to  the  barometer,  and  shook  it  to  make  the  quick- 
silver rise  and  so  indicate  good  weather  for  sick  people  to  travel. 
Frederika  also,  when  nobody  was  nigh,  shook  it  also  to  make  it 
fall. 

"  The  weather  is  evidently  clearing  up,"  said  Mr.  Banks  one 
day  when  he  was  alone  in  the  parlour  with  his  wife,  "  the  clouds 
are  beginning  to  break.  I  guess  he  is  on  his  way." 

"  God  forbid !  papa.  For  my  part  I  think  it  advisable  that 
you  should  write  to  Mr.  Von  Hahn,  not  to  come  before  Christ- 
mas. And  although  I  have  no  faith  in  the  silly  story,  one  cannot 
help  feeling  serious." 

"  Fie,  fie,  mamma !  thinking  of  the  Dead  Guest !  nonsense ! 
for  shame !" 

"  I  grant  you,  dear  husband,  it  is  foolish — yet  if  any  thing 
should  happen  to  our  child — yes,  the  bare  thought  of  it — and 
although  I  do  not  believe  in  ghosts,  and  Frederika  laughs  at  them, 
yet  neither  of  us  would  like  to  go  through  the  churchyard  at 
midnight.  Put  off  the  formal  betrothal  until  after  the  fatal  time. 
After  Advent  the  young  folks  will  have  time  enough.  Why 
hasten  it  just  now  ?  What  harm  is  there  in  a  little  delay  ?" 

"  For  shame !  mamma.  I  will  not  listen  to  such  nonsense. 
For  the  very  reason  the  rabble  have  their  foolish  fancies  about  the 
Dead  Guest,  Freddy  shall  be  a  bride.  One  must  set  an  example. 
It  is  a  duty.  When  folks  see  that  we  don't  care  for  the  Dead 
Guest,  that  we  betroth  Frederika,  and  that  her  neck  is  not  wrung, 
then  the  neck  of  this  silly  superstition  will  be  wrung  for  ever." 

"But  suppose,  papa, — your  child  is  dear  to  you, — suppose 
now — remember,  a  hundred  years  ago,  according  to  the  register, 
something  unfortunate  did  happen,  and  if  now — " 

"  Hush  !  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  Frederika's  face  is  to  be 
turned  to  her  back  !  I've  no  patience  with  the  nonsense." 

"But  consider,  if  Mr.  Von  Hahn  should  come  at  this  evil 
hour  in  this  bad  weather,  sick  as  he  is,  the  weather  and  bad 
roads  might  increase  his  illness.  Suppose,  then,  we  had  a  sick, 


234  THE    GIFT. 

perhaps  a  dead  guest,  and  then  by  your  self-will  you  will  help  to 
confirm  the  superstition.  Do  weigh  the  matter  well." 

Mr.  Banks  paused  a  moment,  and  then  grumbled  out, "  Mamma, 
I  do  not  understand  how  you  are  always  hitting  upon  chances 
which  would  otherwise  enter  no  mortal  brain.  You  are  all 
possessed  with  this  fable  of  the  Advent  day.  You  are,  you  and 
Freddy,  and  even  the  Captain  and  all.  But  you  shall  not  have 
your  way." 

"  If  we  are  so  weak,  which  I  doubt,  it  is  the  duty  of  a  prudent 
housefather  to  give  some  quarter  to  a  weakness  which  hurts 
nobody." 

"  All  folly  hurts.  Therefore,  no  quarter ;  war,  open  war ! 
This  story  about  the  Dead  Guest  is  an  invention  of  the  devil. 
Things  shall  remain  as  they  were.  I  am  immoveable !"  So 
said  Mr.  Banks  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

Matters,  however,  did  not  remain  with  him  quite  as  they  were. 
This  conversation  left  a  thorn  in  his  heart.  He  began  to  think 
that  it  would  be  better  for  the  peace  of  the  family  that  the 
betrothal  should  be  put  off  till  after  Christmas.  He  loved  his 
daughter  tenderly,  and  the  tenderness  of  his  love  made  him 
timid.  The  nearer  the  Advent  approached,  the  more  uneasy  he 
became.  He  secretly  wished  that  his  future  son-in-law  would 
stay  away  a  little  while.  He  was  quite  alarmed  when  the  wea- 
ther completely  cleared  up  and  gave  promise  of  a  beautiful 
Indian  summer.  He  went  now  just  as  frequently  as  before  to 
the  barometer  and  shook  it  to  make  it  fall.  He  observed  with 
astonishment  that  with  the  good  weather  mamma  and  Frederika 
recovered  their  good  spirits,  and  the  Commandant  too.  But  Mr. 
Banks  could  not  find  his. 


GOOD  WEATHER. 

Mrs.  Banks  saw  that  Frederika  had  many  objections  to  the 
rich  banker,  and  that  the  Commandant  had  obtained  greater 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  235 

command  over  that  little  heart  than  he  should.  Not  to  favour 
the  Captain,  dear  as  he  was  to  her,  but  to  prevent  overhaste  and 
any  mischief  that  might  arise,  Mrs.  Banks  laboured  to  delay  the 
betrothal.  She  wished  the  young  people  to  become  acquainted, 
and  Frederika  to  be  familiarized  to  her  destiny.  Besides  she 
wished  to  learn  whether  Mr.  Von  Hahn  really  deserved  the 
heart  of  Frederika.  The  anxious  mother  had  never  breathed 
a  word  of  objection  to  her  husband's  choice.  She  knew  Mr. 
Banks.  Contradiction  would  only  have  made  him  obstinate. 
She  had,  therefore,  so  managed  their  late  conversation  as  to 
plant  a  thorn  in  his  mind,  and  was  rejoiced  when  she  saw  that 
it  had  had  its  effect.  She  wrote  on  Frederika's  birthday  to  a 
friend  at  the  Residence  for  information  about  Mr.  Von  Hahn. 
The  answer  arrived  the  very  day  when  the  fair  weather  so 
alarmed  Mr.  Banks.  Mr.  Von  Hahn  was  described  as  an  excel- 
lent young  man,  universally  esteemed,  and  pitied  on  account  of 
his  delicate  health  and  his  father's  arbitrary  disposition.  The 
father,  feeling  the  infirmities  of  his  age,  had  retired,  leaving  his 
business  to  his  son.  This  good  news  made  pleasant  weather  for 
Mrs.  Banks. 

Another  circumstance  brought  good  weather  for  Frederika 
and  the  Commandant  on  the  same  day.  Waldrich  had  gone  to 
Frederika's  chamber  upon  an  errand  for  Mrs.  Banks.  The 
maiden  sate  at  the  window,  with  her  head  leaning  on  the  new 
harp. 

"  My  lady,  mamma  wishes  to  know  if  you  will  be  pleased  to 
ride  with  us  this  fine  morning?" 

Frederika  made  no  reply,  but  only  turned  her  face  a  little 
farther  away  from  him. 

"  Is  your  highness  angry  ?"  asked  Waldrich,  supposing  she 
was  in  a  jest.  "  Did  I  not  at  breakfast  drink  another  cup  of 
coffee  at  your  command?  Have  I  not  come  punctually  to 
dinner  from  parade  ?" 

There  came  no  answer.  He  stood  silent  a  moment,  then 
went  towards  the  door,  but  turned  again  and  said  impatiently, 
"  Come,  Freddy,  the  weather  is  lovely." 


236  THE    GIFT. 

Thereupon  sounded  forth  a  sullen,  No.  He  was  alarmed  at 
the  tone.  It  was  evident  she  was  in  tears.  "  What  is  the 
matter  ?"  said  he,  anxiously,  and  took  the  hand  upon  which  her 
head  rested,  and  forced  her  to  look  up. 

"Does  mamma  wish  us  to  go  and  meet  him?  Is  he  coming 
to-day?  Has  she  said  any  thing?"  asked  Frederika  hastily, 
wiping  her  eyes. 

Waldrich's  countenance  grew  dark.  Half  angrily  he  ex- 
claimed, "  Oh,  Frederika,  it  is  not  kind  in  you  to  ask  such 
questions.  Do  you  think  I  would  ask  you  to  ride  if  I  dreamt 
of  such  a  thing  ?  God  grant  he  may  not  come  till  I  am  off." 

"How!  off?" 

"  To  another  garrison.  I  have  written  to  the  general,  begging 
to  be  transferred,  but  as  yet  there  is  no  answer." 

Frederika  looked  at  him  vexedly,  as  she  rose  and  said, 
"  George,  that  was  very  silly  in  you." 

"  I  cannot,  I  will  not,  I  must  not  stay." 

"  Waldrich,  are  you  in  earnest  ?  You  will  make  me  angry 
with  you  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  And  you  will  kill  me  if  you  force  me  to  be  your  wedding 
guest." 

"You  shall  never  be  invited  to  my  wedding.  But  who  has 
told  you  that  I  have  given  my  consent  ?" 

"  You  dare  not  refuse  it." 

"  And  yet  I  cannot  give  it !"  sobbed  the  maiden,  hiding  her 
face.  Waldrich  was  unmanned.  It  was  the  first  time  they  had 
touched  upon  the  subject.  At  the  last  birthday  they  had  dis- 
covered how  ardently  they  loved.  Since  those  three  trea- 
cherous birthday  kisses  they  had  looked  upon  each  other  with 
new  eyes. 

After  a  while  Waldrich  said  in  a  true-hearted  tone,  "  Frede- 
rika, may  we  still  be  to  one  another  what  we  have  been  ?" 

"  Waldrich,  can  we  be  to  each  other  any  thing  else  than  we 
have  been  ?" 

"  Can  we  ?  Can  I  ?  Impossible  !  Ah,  1  knew  not  how 
happy  I  was !  Now  that  I  lose  thee,  I  am  lost." 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  237 

"  Lost !  George,  say  not  that,  make  me  not  wretched.  It  is 
a  hateful  word  !  Say  it  not  again." 

"  But  when  he  comes  ?" 

"  Then  God  will  care  for  us.  There,  take  my  hand,  George. 
Ten  thousand  times  would  I  rather  betroth  myself  to  the  Dead 
Guest.  But  say  not  a  word  to  papa  or  mamma.  I  will  speak  to 
them  when  the  time  comes.  Take  my  hand  upon  this  promise, 
and  for  my  sake  be  quiet." 

He  took  her  hand  and  covered  it  with  kisses.  "  And  are  you 
not  happy  now  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Ah,  never  so  happy  as  at  this  moment !"  cried  he. 

"  Away  then,"  said  Frederika,  "  mamma  waits.  Away !  I 
will  make  my  toilette,  and  go  with  you." 

He  went  like  one  intoxicated,  and  informed  Mrs.  Banks  that 
Frederika  was  coming.  Unconsciously  Frederika  sank  upon  a 
seat,  and,  lost  in  a  dream  of  happiness,  forgot  the  ride.  Mrs. 
Banks  came  herself  at  last  for  her  daughter,  and  found  her,  her 
head  with  its  golden  ringlets  sunk  upon  her  breast,  her  hands 
folded  on  her  lap. 

"  Art  thou  thinking  or  praying  ?"  asked  mamma. 

"  I  have  been  with  God." 

"  And  is  it  well  with  thee  ?" 

"  As  with  an  angel  of  God." 

"  Really,  my  love,  thou  hast  been  weeping." 

"  Yes,  I  have  wept,  but  I  am  happy  now,  mamma.  Let  us  go." 

She  took  her  bonnet,  and  the  broad  rose-coloured  riband, 
which  Waldrich  had  tied  to  her  harp,  she  put  round  her  waist. 
Mrs.  Banks  said  nothing,  but  she  determined  never  again  to 
send  the  Captain  upon  errands  to  Frederika. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  DEAD  GUEST. 

On  the  following  evening  was  assembled  at  Mr.  Banks's  the 
first  winter  party  of  the  season, — so  they  called  certain  sociable 
gatherings  they  were  accustomed  to  hold  at  the  several  houses 

21 


238  THE    GIFT. 

of  the  good  people  of  Herbesheim.  This  evening  neither  music 
nor  play  was  to  be  thought  of.  As  it  was  within  three  days  of 
the  first  Advent,  the  Dead  Guest  furnished  the  chief  topic.  The 
young  ladies  turned  up  their  pretty  noses  incredulously.  Many 
a  one  blessed  her  stars  that  she  had  no  lover,  though  at  any 
other  time  she  would  hardly  have  disdained  one.  In  many  a 
one  the  poor  little  heart  beat  sorrowfully  when  a  certain  some- 
body was  thought  of,  to  whom  the  poor  heart  belonged.  The 
old  ladies  shook  their  heads.  The  young  gentlemen  were  all 
unbelievers.  On  the  whole  there  was  much  raillery  and  laughter. 

"  But,"  cried  Mr.  Banks,  with  droll  anger,  "  what  sort  of 
amusement  is  this  ?  Wherever  I  turn,  Dead  Guest,  Dead  Guest ! 
Is  this  entertainment  for  my  living  guests  1  Away  with  it  all ! 
No  more  whispering,  no  corner-gossiping." 

"  I  should  really  like  to  know,"  said  a  young  councillor, 
"  how  the  story  ever  arose.  It  is  as  meagre  as  a  skeleton.  It 
will  not  serve  even  for  a  romance  or  a  ballad." 

"  So  far  from  that,"  cried  Waldrich,  "  the  legend,  as  it  was 
formerly  known,  and  as  I  had  it  from  an  old  huntsman  in  my 
childhood,  is  too  long  and  tedious  for  these  times." 

"  How  !  do  you  know  the  story  ?"  eagerly  asked  several. 

"  I  have  only  an  imperfect  recollection  of  it,"  returned  Waldrich. 

"  Oh,  you  must  tell  it  to  us,"  cried  the  young  ladies,  and 
crowded  round  him.  "  Pray,  do  tell  it." 

No  excuse  availed.  They  moved  their  chairs  into  a  circle. 
Willingly  or  unwillingly,  Waldrich  had  to  relate  the  legend.  In 
order  to  make  it  interesting,  he  embellished  the  story  as  he  could 
upon  the  spur  of  the  moment. 

It  is  now,  (he  began,)  full  two  hundred  years  since  the 
Thirty  Years'  War  broke  out,  when  the  Elector  Frederick  placed 
upon  his  head  the  crown  of  Bohemia.  But  the  Emperor  and 
the  Elector  of  Bavaria,  at  the  head  of  Catholic  Germany,  took 
arms,  and  the  Elector  Frederick  lost  the  battle  and  the  crown. 
All  the  Catholic  cities  rejoiced  in  the  downfall  of  the  poor  Fre- 
derick, who  had  kept  the  crown  only  a  few  months,  and  was,  on 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  239 

this  account,  named  the  Winter-king.  It  is  known  that  he 
escaped  in  disguise  with  a  few  attendants.  That  was  known 
also  to  our  good  ancestors  in  Herbesheim,  two  hundred  years 
ago.  They  gossiped  as  eagerly  about  politics  as  we,  their  worthy 
grandchildren,  do  now. 

Three  beautiful  damsels  sate  one  day  talking  of  the  Winter- 
king.  They  were  all  three  right  good  friends,  and  all  three  had 
a  lover,  that  is,  each  one  for  herself,  or  they  would  not  have 
been  good  friends.  One  was  named  Veronica,  another  Fran- 
ciska,  and  the  third  Jacobea. 

"  They  ought  not  to  allow  the  king  of  the  heretics  to  escape," 
said  Veronica  ;  "  as  long  as  he  lives  the  monster  of  Lutheranism 
will  not  cease  to  spit  forth  destruction." 

"  Aye,"  cried  Franciska,  "  and  whoever  kills  the  Winter-king 
may  look  for  a  great  reward  from  the  Elector  of  Bavaria  and 
the  Pope,  aye,  indeed,  and  from  heaven  itself." 

"  Would,"  joined  in  Jacobea,  "  that  he  might  come  this  way  ! 
He  must  die  by  the  hand  of  my  lover.  My  lover  would  at  least 
receive  a  countship  for  his  reward." 

"  It  is  doubtful,"  said  Veronica,  "  if  thy  lover  will  ever  make 
thee  a  countess.  Were  I  only  to  wink,  my  lover  would  take 
his  sword  and  strike  the  Winter-king  to  the  ground.  And  so 
the  countship  would  be  carried  off  from  under  thy  nose." 

"  Make  yourselves  not  too  sure,"  said  Franciska,  "  my  bache- 
lor is  the  bravest  of  all.  And  were  I  to  bid  him,  he  would  go 
and  cut  down  the  Grand  Turk  on  his  throne.  So  do  not  please 
yourselves  too  much  with  the  countship." 

While  the  maidens  thus  disputed,  there  arose  a  great  clatter 
in  the  street  of  horses  passing  swiftly  by.  Instantly  all  three 
flew  to  the  window.  But  it  was  terrible  weather.  The  rain 
poured  in  torrents.  The  wind  roared  and  dashed  the  rain  in 
floods  against  the  windows. 

"  God  be  merciful !"  cried  Jacobea ;  "  whoever  rides  now, 
surely  rides  not  for  pleasure." 

"  Some  sore  need  drives  him,"  said  Veronica. 


240  THE    GIFT. 

"  Or  an  evil  conscience,"  added  Franciska. 

Opposite,  at  the  sign  of  the  Dragon,  thirteen  horsemen  alighted. 
Twelve  stood  by  their  horses ;  the  thirteenth,  clad  in  white,  went 
into  the  inn.  The  horses  were  led  into  the  stall,  the  knights  into 
the  house. 

"  If  that  were  only  the  Winter-king !"  cried  the  three  damsels, 
as  they  turned  from  the  window  and  gazed  at  one  another. 
There  was  a  noise  on  the  stairs ;  and  lo !  the  three  lovers 
entered.  "  Know  ye  not,"  cried  one,  "  that  the  Winter-king  is 
within  our  walls  ?" 

"  There  would  be  a  capture !"  cried  the  second. 

"  There  is  fear  in  the  face  of  him  of  the  white  cloak,"  cried 
the  third. 

A  shudder  of  joy  came  over  the  maidens,  and  each  turned  to 
her  lover. 

Then  Veronica  said  to  hers,  "  If  my  lover  allows  the  Winter- 
king  to  go  alive  from  the  city,  I  would  rather  be  the  Winter- 
king's  mistress  than  my  lover's  wedded  wife.  So  help  me  God 
and  his  saints !" 

Franciska  said  to  hers,  "  If  my  lover  lets  the  king  survive 
this  night,  I  would  sooner  kiss  death  than  my  lover.  So  help 
me  God  and  his  saints !" 

"  The  key  of  my  bridal  chamber  is  for  ever  lost,  if  my  be- 
loved does  not  in  the  morning  bring  me  his  sword  purple  red 
with  the  blood  of  the  Winter-king,"  said  Jacobea. 

The  three  lovers  were  terrified,  but  they  soon  took  heart  and 
promised  that  the  Winter-king  should  never  again  see  the  light. 
They  took  leave  of  their  mistresses,  who  sate  together  and 
chatted  of  the  eternal  renown  of  their  lovers,  and  of  the  count- 
ship,  and  how  they  would  divide  it  among  them.  The  three 
young  men  went  to  the  sign  of  the  Dragon. 

Before  the  break  of  day,  twelve  of  the  stranger  guests  rode 
hastily  away  through  the  storm  and  rain.  The  thirteenth  lay 
dead  in  his  bed,  swimming  in  blood.  He  had  three  death- 
wounds.  No  one  could  tell  who  he  was.  The  host  declared  it 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  241 

was  not  the  king ;  and  he  was  right,  for  the  Winter-king,  as  is 
well  known,  escaped  to  Holland.  The  Dead  Guest  was  buried 
the  same  day,  but  not  in  consecrated  ground,  but  as  a  suspected 
heretic,  in  the  potter's  field,  without  candle  or  book. 

Anxiously,  in  the  meanwhile,  awaited  the  three  damsels  the 
arrival  of  their  lovers,  but  they  came  not.  They  sent  for  them 
into  all  the  streets,  but  no  one  had  seen  them  since  midnight. 
No  one  could  tell  whither  they  had  gone.  Then  the  poor 
maidens  grieved  bitterly  and  wept  bitterly,  day  and  night,  and 
repented  them  sore  of  the  wicked  command  which  they  had 
given  to  men  so  good  and  true.  But  the  lovely  Jacobea  sor- 
rowed most,  for  she  had  been  the  first  to  propose  the  dangerous 
deed. 

Two  days  had  passed,  and  the  third  was  well-nigh  ended. 
There  was  a  knocking  at  Jacobea's  door.  A  strange  gentleman 
entered  and  asked  after  the  weeping  maiden.  The  stranger 
presented  her  a  letter  which  he  had  promised  to  deliver.  O  how 
Jacobea  trembled  for  joy !  The  dear  letter  was  from  her  lover. 
But  it  was  almost  dark.  The  mother  brought  a  light  to  read 
the  letter,  and  better  to  see  the  stranger.  He  was  a  man  under 
thirty  years  of  age,  tall,  slender,  dressed  wholly  in  black,  with 
the  large  hat  of  those  days  covered  with  black  feathers,  and  a 
black  doublet,  black  breeches,  and  large  boots.  His  sword- 
handle  was  inlaid  with  precious  stones.  Sparkling  jewels  glit- 
tered on  his  fingers.  Yet  his  countenance  was  noble,  but,  not- 
withstanding the  brightness  of  his  eyes,  very  pale,  and  his  black 
dress  made  him  look  paler.  He  seated  himself,  and  the  father 
read  the  letter.  It  ran  thus  :  "  We  have  struck  the  wrong  one. 
Therefore,  sweetheart,  farewell.  I  will  go  to  the  wars  in  Bo- 
hemia, and  seek  me  a  bride  who  will  require  no  such  bloody 
service.  I  send  thee  back  thy  ring."  The  ring  fell  out  of  the 
letter. 

When  Jacobea  heard  this,  she  well-nigh  fainted.  The  father 
and  mother  consoled  her,  and  the  stranger  said  many  gracious 
things.  "  Had  I  known  that  the  knave  had  made  me  the  bearer 

21* 


242  THE    GIFT. 

of  such  tidings,  as  true  as  I  am  the  Count  of  Graves,  he  should 
have  felt  the  edge  of  my  sword.  Dry  your  beautiful  eyes,  fair 
maiden." 

But  Jacobea  could  not  cease  weeping.  The  Count  at  last 
departed,  and  begged  permission  to  return  the  next  day.  He 
kept  his  word,  and  as  he  was  alone  with  Jacobea,  he  said,  "  You 
owe  me  at  least  a  smile,  for  I  have  not  slept  the  whole  night  for 
thinking  of  your  beauty." 

"  How  can  I  smile  ?"  said  Jacobea ;  "  hath  not  the  faithless 
one  sent  me  back  the  ring  ?" 

The  Count  took  the  ring  and  threw  it  out  of  the  window. 
"  Away  with  it !"  he  cried ;  "  how  gladly  would  I  supply  its 
place  with  a  more  beautiful  one !"  and  he  laid  the  most  beautiful 
of  his  rings  before  her  on  the  table.  Jacobea  blushed,  and 
pushed  the  ring  away.  "  Be  not  so  cruel,"  said  the  Count,  "  for 
my  heart  and  my  countship  lie  at  your  feet." 

Jacobea  feigned  to  reject  him,  yet  they  talked  on,  and  the 
Count  spoke  very  bewitchingly.  His  countenance  was  deadly 
pale,  yet  when  he  spoke  so  gracefully,  it  was  easy  to  forget  his 
paleness  ;  and  Jacobea  ceased  weeping. 

The  presence  of  the  rich  gentleman  in  Herbesheim  was  soon 
known,  for  he  had  many  attendants,  and  was  lavish  in  expense. 
When  Veronica  and  Franciska  heard  of  all  these  things,  they 
hastened  to  their  friend,  and  asked  whether  the  noble  Count 
knew  any  thing  of  the  two  other  lovers,  and  begged  her  to 
inquire  of  him. 

Jacobea  did  so,  and  he  said  he  would  visit  the  injured  ladies, 
and  she  thanked  him  heartily.  She  began  to  treat  him  more 
kindly,  for  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  have  only  to  stretch  out  my 
hand  and  take  the  countship,  without  having  to  share  it  with  the 
two  others."  And  she  showed  the  ring  the  Count  had  left  on 
the  table  to  her  parents,  and  told  them  of  his  proposal  and  of 
his  riches.  The  parents  could  hardly  believe  it.  But  when 
the  Count  came  and  begged  their  permission  to  present  their 
daughter  with  a  trifle  for  a  Sunday  ornament,  and  drew  out 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  243 

a  diamond  cross,  with  a  sevenfold  string  of  pearls,  then  they 
believed,  and  said,  "  This  son-in-law  will  please  us  right  well." 

The  Count  came  often  and  made  them  all  beautiful  presents. 
Jacobea  exulted  in  the  prospect  of  being  Countess  of  Graves,  and 
yielded  to  the  passion  of  her  new  lover. 

But  the  Count  was  an  ill  bird.  When  he  came  to  see  Vero- 
nica, he  found  her  more  beautiful  than  Jacobea,  and  when  he 
saw  the  fair-haired  Franciska,  the  others  seemed  almost  homely. 
And  he  repeated  almost  the  same  story  to  each  about  her  lover, 
giving  them  back  their  rings,  and  telling  them  that  their  lovers 
bade  him  tell  the  damsels  that  they  must  find  lovers  whose 
fingers  these  rings  fitted  better  than  theirs. 

With  Veronica  the  Count  swore  the  ring  fitted  him  exactly, 
but  Franciska's  ring,  he  assured  her,  seemed  as  if  it  was  made 
for  him.  And  he  played  his  part  right  cunningly  with  all  three. 
To  all  he  offered  his  heart  and  countship,  and  all  soon  became 
accustomed  to  his  pale  countenance. 

But  the  three  friends  made  a  secret  to  one  another  of  their 
intimacy  with  the  Count.  They  ceased  to  visit,  and  all  fell  in 
love  with  the  Count,  who  soon  proposed  a  formal  betrothal  to 
each,  and  a  change  of  rings  in  the  presence  of  their  parents,  and 
after  this  a  still  hour  at  night,  when  they  might  settle  all  about 
their  marriage.  And  all  three  acceded,  and  sealed  their  consent 
each  with  a  kiss.  And  each  said,  "  Dear  Count,  why  are  you 
so  pale  ?  Lay  aside  your  black  dress ;  it  makes  you  still 
paler."  And  he  said,  "  I  wear  black  to  fulfil  a  vow.  On  the 
wedding-day,  I  will  appear  in  red  and  white,  like  your  cheeks, 
best  beloved."  Then  the  Count  was  betrothed  to  each  in  the 
same  day ;  and  at  night,  he  stole  to  the  chamber  of  each.  As 
the  maidens  slept  long  the  next  morning,  their  parents  went  to 
awaken  them.  There  lay  all  three,  ice  cold,  with  their  necks 
wrung,  and  their  faces  turned  to  their  backs. 

The  death-cry  from  the  three  homes  sounded  through  the 
streets.  The  people  assembled  in  affright,  and,  as  suspicion  fell 
upon  the  Count,  gathered  round  the  sign  of  the  Dragon.  There 
the  host  complained  that  his  guest  had  vanished.  All  the  bag- 


244  THE    GIFT. 

gage  had  disappeared,  and  no  one  knew  how.  The  horses  were 
gone,  too,  and  none  of  the  watchmen  had  seen  or  heard  them 
depart.  Then  every  one  crossed  himself  as  he  passed  the  houses 
of  the  three  unhappy  brides.  And  all  were  appalled  when  they 
learned  that  all  the  Count's  rich  presents  had  vanished  too. 

Only  a  few  persons  in  black  mantles  followed  the  corpses  of 
the  three  maidens  out  of  the  gate.  And  when  the  coffins  were 
set  down  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  Sebaldus,  and  the  service  was 
about  to  be  read,  a  tall  man  was  seen  to  leave  the  procession, 
and  it  was  seen,  with  wonder,  that  although  he  had  before  been 
clad  in  black,  he  gradually  became  wholly  white,  and  three  red 
spots  appeared  on  his  doublet,  and  the  blood  trickled  down  over 
his  dress.  He  disappeared  in  the  potter's  field. 

"  Jesu  Maria !"  cried  the  host  of  the  Dragon,  "  that  is  the 
Dead  Guest,  whom  we  buried  twenty -one  days  ago."  Horror 
seized  all  in  the  churchyard,  and  all  ran  away  in  fear.  A 
fearful  storm  of  snow  and  rain  arose.  Three  days  and  nights 
the  coffins  remained  unburied. 

When  the  magistrates  at  last  ordered  them  to  be  deposited  in 
the  earth, — and  large  sums  of  money  were  offered  to  strong  men 
to  perform  this  office, — the  coffins  were  found  to  be  as  light  as  if 
they  were  empty.  One  had  the  courage  to  go  for  a  hammer, 
and  another  called  a  clergyman.  The  coffins  were  opened  and 
found  entirely  empty,  without  pillow  or  shroud.  The  empty 
coffins  were  buried. 

Here  Waldrich  ended.  There  was  a  pin-drop  silence.  The 
candles  burnt  dimly.  The  men  sate  and  stood  looking  very 
seriously.  The  young  ladies  had  crowded  themselves  together 
in  couples,  and  the  elderly  ladies  listened,  with  folded  hands  and 
long  faces,  long  after  Waldrich  had  ceased  speaking. 

"  For  mercy's  sake,  snuff  the  candles !"  cried  Mr.  Banks, 
"  and  do  talk.  This  devil's  nonsense  might  well  create  a  panic." 

To  this  speech  every  one  responded.  They  ran  to  the  can- 
dles. They  moved  in  their  seats.  They  rallied  one  another 
upon  the  fear  which  they  saw  in  others,  but  no  one  would  con- 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  245 

fess  to.     They  pronounced  the  story  the  silliest  that  a  nurse's 
brain  ever  hatched. 

But  as  soon  as  the  Commandant  had  rested,  the  company 
insisted  upon  having  the  story  of  the  second  appearance  of  the 
Dead  Guest,  and  drew  themselves  into  a  semicircle,  without 
waiting  for  Waldrich's  consent.  There  was  a  new  silence. 

The  present  Becker  estate,  outside  of  the  city,  once  belonged, 
(so  Waldrich  began,)  to  the  noble  family  Von  Rosen,  but  they 
have  not  occupied  it  for  a  hundred  years.  The  last  Baron  who 
occupied  it  was  a  great  spendthrift.  He  came  here  only  occa- 
sionally from  Vienna  or  Paris,  for  the  sake  of  economy.  But 
his  residence  here  was  only  a  continuation  of  his  dissipation. 
The  estate  was  then  highly  cultivated.  The  last  time  the  Baron 
came  to  the  castle,  was  at  an  unusual  season,  late  in  autumn, 
and  with  a  large  company,  of  fifteen  or  twenty  young  noblemen. 
His  daughter  was  then  betrothed  to  the  Viscount  de  Vivienne,  a 
rich  young  Frenchman. 

The  pleasures  of  the  table,  of  hunting,  and  of  gambling  for 
immense  sums,  and  the  acting  of  little  French  dramas,  filled  up 
the  time.  The  master  of  ceremonies  in  all  these  sports  was  one 
Count  Altenburg,  a  young  free  liver  from  the  lower  Rhine.  He 
was  a  professed  gamester,  and  knew  all  the  fashions  and  prac- 
tices of  all  the  courts  of  that  day.  Nothing  could  equal  his 
ingenuity  in  devising  amusements.  The  Baron  Von  Rosen  had 
only  just  made  his  acquaintance,  and  had  brought  him  with  him 
as  a  great  treasure,  partly  because  Altenburg  was  not  always 
fortunate  at  play,  and  the  Baron  hoped  through  him  to  repair 
his  fortunes. 

It  was  this  young  rake  who  suggested  the  idea,  as  winter 
approached,  of  a  masked  ball,  to  which  every  one  should  bring 
a  lady  from  the  neighbourhood,  selected  for  her  beauty,  with- 
out regard  to  birth.  There  was  a  great  dearth  of  ladies  at 
the  castle.  "  Why  should  we  always  consult  the  genealogical 
tree  ?"  said  Altenburg ;  "  beauty  is  on  a  level  with  queens." 
All  murmured  applause,  although  the  ladies  turned  up  their  noses 


246  THE    GIFT. 

a  little.  The  milliners  and  tailors  in  this  little  city  were  set  in 
motion,  to  furnish  suitable  dresses.  Altenburg  sought  out  the 
best  tailor  and  the  prettiest  maiden  in  Herbesheim.  He  found 
both  under  the  same  roof.  Master  Vogel  was  the  best  tailor, 
and  his  daughter,  Henrietta,  enraptured  the  Count  with  her 
charms. 

The  Count  was  for  ever  at  Master  Vogel's,  overseeing  the 
work,  and  watching  Henrietta  especially.  He  would  have  her 
make  the  female  dresses  which  he  ordered,  and  he  said  they 
must  be  fitted  to  her  own  shape,  as  the  noble  lady  he  was  to 
take  to  the  ball  was  exactly  of  her  size.  In  paying  Master 
Vogel  he  was  very  liberal,  and  his  presents  alone  amounted  to 
the  price  of  the  work.  He  said  flattering  things  to  the  daughter, 
and  at  last  made  love  to  her.  Henrietta  would  not  indeed  listen 
to  him,  for  she  was  an  honourable  maiden,  and,  besides,  was 
engaged  to  an  apprentice  of  her  father's,  still  she  could  not  find 
it  in  her  heart  to  be  angry  at  the  sweet  words  of  so  gracious  a 
gentleman. 

A  few  days  before  the  ball — the  dresses  were  all  finished — 
Altenburg  came  to  Master  Vogel,  with  an  air  of  great  vexation, 
and  requested  to  speak  with  him  alone. 

"  Master,"  said  he,  "  I  am  in  trouble.  You  can  help  me  out  ; 
and  I  will  reward  you  generously." 

"  I  am  your  highness's  most  humble  servant,"  replied  the 
tailor,  with  a  low  bow  and  a  smile. 

"  Just  think,  Master  Vogel,"  said  Altenburg,  "  my  partner  is 
sick  and  cannot  go  to  the  ball.  What  shall  I  do?  I  could 
easily  find  another;  but  then  will  the  dress  fit?  You  see,  Master 
Vogel,  I  must  beg  you  for  your  daughter.  The  dress  fits  her, 
you  know.  You  must  beg  her  to  favour  me." 

The  tailor  was  quite  overcome.  He  had  not  dreamed  of  such 
an  honour.  He  could  not  utter  a  word. 

"  Henrietta  shall  never  repent  it,"  added  the  Count.  "  The 
dress  shall  be  hers,  and  I  will  provide  any  thing  else  that  may 
be  necessary." 

"  Your  highness  is  too  kind,"  cried  Master  Vogel.     "  I  must 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  247 

tell  your  highness,  the  maiden  dances  beautifully.  You  should 
have  seen  her  at  the  wedding  of  my  neighbour,  the  tin-founder. 
Say  no  more.  Remain  here.  I  will  send  her  to  your  highness." 

"  But,  Master  Vogel,"  rejoined  the  Count,  "  perhaps  Henri- 
etta's bachelor  will  be  jealous.  You  must  speak  a  good  word 
to  him." 

"  Oh  !"  cried  Master  Vogel,  "  the  clown  shall  be  quiet." 

Master  Vogel  left  the  room,  and  Henrietta  entered,  blushing. 
The  Count  covered  her  hand  with  kisses.  She  blushed  again. 
Having  told  her  his  wishes,  he  whispered  she  would  be  the 
belle  of  the  evening,  and  presented  her  with  a  pair  of  splendid 
ear-rings. 

This  was  almost  too  much  for  a  weak,  vain  maiden.  And 
when  she  accepted  his  invitation,  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms  and 
said,  "  Henrietta,  why  should  I  conceal  it.  Thee  alone  did  I 
ever  think  of  for  my  partner.  Ah!  Henrietta!  1  would  choose 
thee  for  something  more.  Thou  art  not  so  beautiful  merely  to 
be  the  wife  of  a  boor.  Dost  thou — wilt  thou  understand  me  ?" 

She  made  no  answer,  but  drew  herself  from  his  arms.  Both 
went  into  the  shop.  Altenburg  whispered  to  her  father,  "  She  is 
content.  Take  this  to  defray  all  expenses."  And  he  pressed 
into  the  old  man's  hand  a  purse  of  gold,  and  departed. 

But  now  arose  a  stormy  scene  in  the  house  of  the  tailor,  for 
Christian,  the  apprentice,  when  he  found  what  was  going  on, 
was  well-nigh  crazy.  His  rage  endured  all  day.  Henrietta 
had  a  sleepless  night.  But  she  could  not  help  thinking  that 
Christian  was  wanting  in  love  for  her  when  he  grudged  her  so 
great  a  pleasure. 

The  next  day  Christian  did  not  rave  quite  so  furiously,  but  he 
kept  saying  in  a  menacing  tone,  "  You  will  not  go  to  the  ball !" 
to  which  Henrietta  replied,  "  I  shall  go  though  !"  Whereupon  the 
father  would  add,  "  She  shall  go  in  spite  of  thee."  Dancing 
shoes,  silk  stockings,  &c.,  were  purchased. 

But  when  the  ball-day  came,  Christian  tied  up  his  bundle,  and 
came  in  all  ready  for  travelling,  and  said:  "  Since  you  go,  I  will 
go  also,  and  we  are  now  parted  for  ever."  Henrietta  grew  pale. 


248  THE    GIFT. 

The  old  man  cried,  "  Off  with  thee,  when  thou  will'st.  Hen- 
rietta can  get  a  husband  any  day  better  ten  times  than  thou." 
But  Henrietta  wept.  Then  came  a  servant  of  Count  Altenburg 
with  a  box  in  the  name  of  his  master.  There  was  a  costly  veil, 
and  an  elegant  necklace  and  diamond  rings.  And  Henrietta 
struggled  between  vanity  and  love.  Christian  threw  down  the 
ring  he  had  received  from  her,  and  departed  to  return  no  more. 

Henrietta  sobbed  aloud  and  wished  to  call  him  back,  but  her 
father  consoled  her.  Evening  came.  Engrossed  with  her  orna- 
ments she  soon  forgot  her  departed  lover.  A  carriage  rolled  to 
the  door.  Altenburg  came,  and  they  rode  away. 

The  ball  was  brilliant.  Altenburg  and  Henrietta  appeared  in 
black,  in  old  German  costume.  They  attracted  all  eyes. 

"  The  black  mask  is  the  Count,"  said  Viscount  de  Vivienne  to 
his  lady;  "  why  does  he  put  on  a  mask?  He  cannot  shorten  his 
tall  figure.  To  make  himself  known,  this  knight  of  the  rueful 
countenance  needs  no  more  than  his  favourite  colour,  black. 
But  who  is  his  partner  ?  She  has  a  beautiful  figure  and  dances 
splendidly." 

"  I  warrant,"  said  the  Baroness,  "  only  some  common  thing 
from  the  city." 

The  ball  continued  far  into  the  night.  When  the  masks  were 
removed,  the  Viscount  could  not  cease  to  gaze  at  the  lovely  Hen- 
rietta. He  sate  by  her  at  supper,  and  Altenburg  by  the  Baro- 
ness. The  two  gentlemen  appeared  to  change  places. 

"  As  true  as  I  live,"  said  Vivienne  to  the  Count,  "  I'll  rob  you 
of  your  partner,  even  if  you  should  become  my  deadly  enemy." 

"  I  have  my  revenge  at  hand,"  replied  Altenburg. 

The  Viscount,  whom  the  new  passion  and  the  old  wine  made 
lively,  said,  without  thinking  that  the  Baroness  was  near,  "  A 
dozen  of  my  baronesses  for  the  single  Venus  in  the  old  German 
costume."  And  thus  he  went  on  notwithstanding  all  the  hints 
and  winks  of  the  Count.  At  last  the  latter  bade  him  cease  his 
insults  to  the  Baroness,  who  left  them  in  anger.  It  soon  came  to 
a  dispute.  The  Viscount  became  more  and  more  violent,  and  at 
last  called  the  Count  a  rake. 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  249 

"  Viscount !"  cried  Altenburg,  "  rake  !    I !    Who  says  that  ?" 

"  Your  own  leaden  face,"  scornfully  laughed  the  Viscount. 

"  If  you  are  not  a  coward,"  returned  the  other,  "  you  will 
give  me  satisfaction.  You  are  a  sot." 

At  this  moment,  the  Baron  Von  Rosen,  who  had  met  his 
daughter  in  tears,  and  learned  the  cause,  came  up,  and  taking 
Vivienne  aside,  "  You  have  insulted  rny  daughter,"  said  he ;  "I 
demand  instant  satisfaction."  They  left  the  saloon.  The  Count 
followed  them.  "  Permit  me,  Sir  Baron,"  said  he,  "  to  revenge 
the  honour  of  the  Baroness  and  my  own."  The  Viscount  cried 
in  a  rage,  "  Now  then,  ashen-face,  draw  !"  But  the  contest  had 
lasted  only  a  minute  or  two,  when  the  Viscount's  sword  was 
struck  from  his  hand. 

"  Wretch  !"  cried  the  Count,  "  thy  life  is  in  my  power.  But 
go,  and  never  show  thyself  here  again."  And  with  this  he 
struck  the  Viscount  with  the  flat  of  his  sword,  and  with  a  giant's 
strength,  threw  him  out  of  the  door. 

However  deeply  wounded  the  Baroness  was  by  the  rudeness 
of  the  Viscount,  she  had  not  really  loved  him,  and  the  Count 
suddenly  became  very  agreeable  to  her,  and  with  his  flatteries 
and  protestations  of  love  soon  had  her  in  his  snares. 

Henrietta  in  the  meanwhile  was  intoxicated  with  delight.  She 
saw  herself  the  object  of  universal  admiration.  When,  towards 
morning,  the  Count  carried  her  home  and  invited  her  to  the  next 
ball,  her  delight  was  without  bounds.  "  Ah  !  Henrietta  !"  he 
sighed,  "as  Countess  of  Altenburg,  thy  whole  life  should  be  such 
a  ball-day  !" 

The  next  day  he  did  not  fail  to  inquire  after  the  health  of  his 
two  partners.  He  continued  his  addresses  to  both.  The  fathers 
were  equally  deluded  by  him.  Without  the  knowledge  of  the 
other,  each  sanctioned  the  consent  already  obtained  of  the  vain 
maidens.  Ay,  and  what  was  worse,  the  remorseless  seducer 
had  played  the  same  game  at  the  house  of  a  civilian,  whose 
daughter  he  had  ensnared.  The  betrothal  of  all  three  was 
formally  solemnized. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  when  this  took  place  there  was  a 

22 


250  THE    GIFT. 

ball  at  the  castle,  to  which  Altenburg  obtained  permission  to 
bring  Henrietta.  It  was  a  fearful  day  in  nature.  There  was  a 
raging  storm  of  snow  and  hail,  and  thunder  and  lightning.  The 
tiles  rattled  on  the  roofs.  But  in  the  ball-room  there  shone 
from  a  hundred  tapers  a  clear  bright  day,  and  all  was  joy  and 
revelry.  Towards  morning  the  young  Baroness  left  the  com- 
pany. The  Count  followed  her  to  her  chamber.  When  he 
returned  the  ball  was  breaking  up.  Altenburg  accompanied 
Henrietta  home. 

The  next  morning  a  horrible  rumour  ran  through  the  town. 
The  daughter  of  a  civilian  had  been  found  dead  in  her  bed  with 
her  neck  wrung.  Physicians  and  police  officers  hurried  to  the 
place.  Many  then  recollected  what  had  happened  a  hundred 
years  before.  A  deadly  fear  fell  upon  every  family. 

The  report  reached  Master  Vogel,  and  he  thought  of  Henrietta 
with  secret  terror.  As  he  thought  of  the  Count,  of  his  paleness, 
his  black  dress,  answering  to  the  description  of  the  Dead  Guest, 
his  very  hair  stood  on  end.  He  went  to  the  closet  for  a  glass  of 
Madeira,  and  lo !  the  wine,  a  present  from  the  Count,  had  va- 
nished. He  grew  sick  at  heart.  Alone  and  softly  he  crept  up 
to  Henrietta's  chamber.  He  opened  the  door.  He  approached 
the  bed,  but  had  not  courage  to  look  at  it,  and  when  at  last  he 
glanced  towards  it,  a  cloud  came  before  his  eyes — there  she  lay, 
her  beautiful  face  turned  to  her  back.  Struck  dumb,  he  stood 
there.  Without  knowing  what  he  did  he  restored  the  pale  head 
of  the  corpse  to  its  natural  position,  and  hastened  away  for  a 
physician.  The  physician  came  and  looked  at  the  beautiful 
body  and  shook  his  head.  Master  Vogel  wailed  so  loudly  that 
the  neighbours  rushed  terrified  into  his  house. 

While  all  were  talking  of  the  fate  of  the  two  maidens,  there 
arose  a  new  report  of  the  sudden  death  of  the  young  Baroness. 
But  the  particulars  could  not  be  learned.  Every  one  surmised 
the  truth,  and  believed  that  the  Baron  spared  no  gold  to  purchase 
silence. 

On  one  and  the  same  day  the  three  funerals  took  place.  They 
entered  the  churchyard  at  the  same  time.  Then  one  of  the 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  251 

mourners,  veiled  in  black,  stepped  aside  just  as  the  service  began, 
and  he  had  gone  but  a  few  paces  when  he  assumed  a  different 
appearance,  and  was  arrayed  in  a  strange  white  antique  dress, 
with  a  white  feather  in  his  hat,  and  three  dark  red  spots  were 
seen  upon  his  breast,  evidently  drops  of  blood.  He  turned 
towards  the  potter's  field,  and  was  seen  no  more.  The  coffin- 
bearers,  as  they  lifted  the  coffins,  found  them  as  light  as  if 
they  were  empty.  Full  of  terror,  they  threw  them  into  the 
graves,  and  hastily  threw  the  earth  over  them.  All  fled  with 
fear,  and  a  fierce  storm  howled  after  them. 


MUTUAL  DECLARATIONS. 

Here  Waldrich  ended.  His  listeners  were  less  affected  than 
by  the  first  story.  Still  the  second  part  of  the  legend  occa- 
sioned much  discussion.  Foremost  among  the  unbelievers  was 
Mr.  Banks,  whose  wit,  however,  had  very  little  effect.  For  he 
was  generally  known  as  a  sort  of  free-thinker.  Whatever  was 
thought  of  Waldrich's  narrations,  they  spread  the  next  day 
through  the  whole  town.  At  any  other  time  they  would  have 
made  hardly  any  impression;  but  at  this  juncture  even  the 
most  incredulous  were  curious  to  know  what  was  the  simple 
truth  about  the  Dead  Guest. 

Waldrich  himself  had  no  idea  of  the  circulation  which  his 
stories  obtained.  For  he  had  to  leave  Herbesheim  almost  im- 
mediately for  a  few  weeks.  This  he  would  gladly  have  de- 
clined doing,  not  only  on  account  of  the  bad  weather,  but  also 
for  Frederika's  sake,  or  rather  for  his  own.  He  did  not  doubt 
her  constancy.  Still  he  was  harassed  by  the  thought  of  a  thou- 
sand possibilities.  He  poured  out  all  his  apprehensions  to  Fre- 
derika  the  evening  before  his  departure.  She  retired  early  under 
the  plea  of  headache.  He  was  to  depart  in  the  night.  He  did 
violence  to  his  feelings,  and  tried  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Banks  to 
appear  cheerful.  Mrs.  Banks  saw  the  struggle ;  and  when,  the 
morning  after  his  departure,  she  approached  Frederika's  bed  and 


252  THE    GIFT. 

asked,  how  she  had  slept,  she  perceived  that  the  poor  child's  eyes 
were  red  with  weeping. 

"  My  child,"  said  Mrs.  Banks,  "  why  do  you  hide  your  suffer- 
ing from  your  mother  ?  Do  I  love  you  less  than  formerly,  or 
do  you  love  me  less  since  Waldrich  is  your  love  ?  Why  do  you 
blush  ?  There  is  nothing  sinful  in  your  love,  but  that  you  do 
not  confide  in  me — that  I  must  condemn." 

Frederika  extended  her  arms,  and  weeping,  drew  her  mother 
to  her  heart :  "  Yes,  I  do  love  him.  You  know  it.  I  have  been 
wrong  in  being  silent  towards  my  good  mother,  but  I  did  not 
wish  her  to  suffer  sooner  than  was  necessary.  That  she  must  do 
when  my  father  learns  that  I  would  rather  die  than  give  my 
hand  to  the  husband  of  his  choosing." 

"  My  child,  I  have  not  come  to  reproach  you.  I  forgive  your 
distrust  of  the  mother's  heart  which  has  never  been  shut  against 
you.  I  have  long  suspected  how  things  stood.  Yet  be  com- 
posed. Hope  !  Pray  !  He  is  worthy  of  you,  although  he  has 
not,  and  is  not,  what  thy  father  desires.  I  will  tell  your  father 
how  you  two  stand." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  not  yet,  not  just  yet." 

"  Yes,  Frederika,  now.  It  would  have  been  better  earlier.  I 
must  tell  him,  for  I  am  his  wife.  I  dare  not,  I  will  not  keep  any 
thing  from  him.  Have  no  secret  from  your  future  husband." 

"  But  what  shall  I  do  ?"  said  Frederika. 

"  Do  you  not  know  ?  Turn  in  still  prayer  to  God.  That  will 
compose  and  sanctify  you,  and  then  you  will  do  no  wrong. 
And  if  you  do  right,  all  things  will  come  right." 

With  this,  Mrs.  Banks  departed  to  join  her  husband  at  break- 
fast. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  the  child  ?"  asked  he. 

"  From  a  too  great  love  for  her  parents,  she  wants  confidence 
in  you  and  me." 

"Stuff!  Mamma,  you  have  something  in  the  background. 
Yesterday  the  headache,  and  to-day  no  confidence." 

"  She  is  afraid  she  will  vex  you.  Therefore  she  is  ill.  She 
is  afraid  you  will  force  her  to  accept  Mr.  Von  Hahn," 


THE   DEAD    GUEST.  253 

"  She  has  never  seen  him." 

"  She  would  rather  not  see  him:  the  truth  is,  she  and  Waldrich 
are  interested  in  one  another." 

"  The  deuce  they  are !"  cried  Mr.  Banks ;  "  what  then  ?" 

"  Why,  you  must  be  cautious.  There  must  be  no  haste.  It 
is  possible,  if  Frederika  knows  that  Mr.  Von  Hahn  will  not  be 
forced  upon  her,  she  may  by  and  by  find  him  agreeable ;  and 
the  Captain  may  be  ordered  to  another  garrison." 

"  Right !  I'll  write  to  his  General.  Frederika  wants  to  be  lady- 
captain,  does  she  ?  I'll  write  by  the  next  post." 

Mrs.  Banks  had  now  paved  the  way.  Mr.  Banks  stormed  a 
little,  but  confessed  that  it  would  not  do  to  build  a  dam  against 
the  stream,  or  to  be  arbitrary  in  such  affairs. 

"  By  all  that's  good  !  it's  a  bad  mishap  !"  said  he ;  and  he  said 
the  same  when  he  talked  with  Frederika  herself.  "  Consider," 
said  he,  "  you  must  not  throw  yourself  away  like  a  little  goose. 
You  may  love  one  another  for  all  I  care — only  you  must  not 
think  of  marriage.  I'll  have  nothing  of  that.  No  haste.  Get 
acquainted  with  Von  Hahn.  I  will  not  force  thee  to  have  him, 
but  take  care  and  don't  force  me." 

Thus,  through  the  wise  guidance  of  Mrs.  Banks,  the  peace  of 
the  family  was  preserved,  and  a  threatening  storm  turned  into  a 
still,  rainy  day.  Frederika  looked  forward  with  hope ;  and  so 
did  Mr.  Banks,  while  he  planned  a  letter  to  the  General.  Mrs. 
Banks  desired  only  the  happiness  of  all  parties. 


THE  SURPRISE. 

"  Ah,  poor  Waldrich  !"  said  Frederika  on  Sunday,  when  she 
had  returned  from  church  with  her  mother,  and  was  seated  at 
the  window,  looking  out  upon  the  solitary  street,  on  which  the 
rain  fell  heavily,  "  I  hope  he  is  not  now  on  his  way." 

"  A  soldier  should  be  able  to  bear  every  thing,"  said  Mrs. 
Banks. 

"  But  just  look  out,  mamma ;  see  how  the  storm  rages." 
22* 


254  THE    GIFT. 

Mrs.  Banks  laughed,  for  a  thought  struck  her  which  she  hesi- 
tated to  express.  At  last  she  said,  "  Frederika,  do  you  not  know 
to-day  is  the  first  Sunday  of  Advent,  just  the  time  for  the  Dead 
Guest !  The  Wild  Prince  always  announces  himself  with  a 
storm." 

"  I  wager,  mamma,  our  Herbesheim  folks  are  dreadfully 
anxious." 

At  this  moment,  Mr.  Banks  entered  with  a  loud,  yet  strange 
laugh, — strange,  because  it  was  hard  to  say  whether  it  was  natu- 
ral or  forced. 

"Stuff!  stuff!"  he  cried;  "do  go  into  the  kitchen,  mamma, 
and  put  the  girls  in  order,  or  we  shall  lose  our  dinner." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Banks. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  ?  The  whole  town's  in  a  fluster. 
The  Dead  Guest  is  come,  they  say,  the  fools ! — wouldn't  listen 
to  the  nonsense — just  come  by  the  kitchen  door — the  maids  were 
making  a  dreadful  clatter — just  popped  my  head  in  and  the  sim- 
pletons screamed  at  the  sight  of  my  wig,  and  ran  off,  thinking  I 
was  the  Dead  Guest !  Kitty  let  the  eggs  fall,  and  even  poor  old 
Molly  cut  her  fingers  in  her  fright." 

Frederika  laughed  outright. 

"  Put  things  in  order,"  continued  Mr.  Banks,  "  or  the  first 
trick  of  the  Dead  Guest  will  be  to  spoil  our  dinner." 

Frederika  ran  laughing  into  the  kitchen,  while  she  said,  "  It 
shall  not  be  quite  so  bad  as  that !" 

"  See  now,"  said  Mr.  Banks,  "  the  fine  effects  of  superstition. 
So  it  is.  Superstition  above  and  below.  First  Advent,  stormy 
weather — look  ye  !  the  fools  creep  into  corners  and  even  cross 
themselves,  and  imagine  the  Dead  Guest  makes  it  rain  and  what 
not." 

Mrs.  Banks  smiled  gently  and  said,  "  Don't  be  so  angry,  papa; 
the  thing  is  not  worth  it." 

"  Not  worth  it  ?  ah,  you  too  are  infected  with  the  old  mouldy 
faith ;  but  don't  plead  for  superstition.  I'll  leave  ten  thousand 
guilders  when  I  die,  to  pay  a  teacher  to  instruct  people  in  com- 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  255 

"  But — but,  papa,  why  worry  yourself  so  ?" 

"  A  plague  on  all  superstition  !  That's  the  way  the  English 
get  the  advantage  of  us.  The  more  stupid  the  people,  the  easier 
they  trample  on  them." 

While  Mr.  Banks  thus  continued  to  thunder  forth,  walking  up 
and  down  the  room,  and  from  time  to  time  pausing  midway,  the 
book-keeper  stept  softly  in. 

"  It  is  all  true,  Mr.  Banks." 

"  What  is  true  ?" 

"  He  has  really  arrived.     He  lodges  at  the  Black  Cross." 

"  Who  lodges  at  the  Black  Cross  ?" 

"  The  Dead  Guest." 

"  What  nonsense!  do  you,  a  sensible  man,  believe  every  thing 
the  old  women  tell  you  7" 

"  But  my  eyes  are  not  old  women.  I  went  out  of  curiosity  to 
the  Black  Cross.  The  court-clerk  was,  so  to  say,  my  companion. 
And  there  he  sat." 

"Who?  what?" 

"  I  knew  him  at  once.  And  the  landlord  knew  him  too,  for 
as  we  came  out,  he  turned  to  the  clerk,  made  great  eyes,  drew 
down  his  mouth,  threw  up  his  eyebrows,  as  much  as  to  say, 
4  There  he  sits,  it  bodes  no  good.'  " 

"  Fal-de-lal !" 

"  The  collector  has  betaken  himself  to  the  police  lieutenant." 

"  The  collector  is  a  fool  ! — ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself." 

"  May  be  so.  But  if  it  is  not  the  Dead  Guest  it  is  his  twin 
brother.  A  pale  face — from  head  to  foot  black  as  a  crow — six 
feet  high — gold  chain  over  his  breast — brilliant  rings — splendid 
equipage,  and  comes  on  the  first  Advent,  and  in  a  terrible  storm." 

Mr.  Banks  stared  at  the  book-keeper  with  an  expression  in 
which  unbelief  struggled  with  surprise.  He  remained  for  some 
time  silent.  At  last  he  passed  his  hand  over  his  face  and  said, 
"  Nothing  but  chance, — a  strange  coincidence — that's  all — very 
queer — only  a  chance." 

Here  the  conversation  ceased.  Mr.  Banks  would  listen  to 
nothing  more. 


256  THE    GIFT. 


THE  APPARITION. 

The  Dead  Guest  was  now  the  universal  topic.  In  the  evening 
some  friends  met  at  the  burgomaster's.  Thither  the  ladies  went 
immediately  after  the  afternoon  service.  Mr.  Banks  promised  to 
follow  them  as  soon  as  it  was  dark. 

In  accordance  with  his  promise,  he  was  just  about  to  dismiss 
one  of  his  workmen  who  had  come  to  speak  with  him,  and  take 
his  way  to  the  burgomaster's,  when  he  was  startled  by  a  piercing 
female  shriek.  "  Just  go,  Paul,  and  see  what's  the  matter,"  said 
Mr.  Banks  to  the  workman. 

The  workman  went,  but  instantly  returned  in  great  fright, 
gasping  out  the  words,  "  Somebody  wants  to  see  you." 

"  Let  him  come  in,"  said  Mr.  Banks  impatiently.  Paul 
opened  the  door  and  a  stranger  entered,  a  tall  man,  in  black, 
with  a  pleasing  countenance,  but  very  pale.  His  paleness  was 
rendered  deathlike  by  a  black  neckcloth.  His  neat  dress,  his 
rich  rings,  showed  him  to  be  of  noble  rank. 

Mr.  Banks  stared  in  utter  amazement,  not  wholly  unmingled 
with  fear.  Here  was  the  Dead  Guest  from  top  to  toe.  But  he 
collected  himself  as  well  as  he  could,  and  with  a  bow  to  the 
stranger  somewhat  stiffened  by  fear,  said  to  Paul,  "  Paul,  stay  a 
little,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"  I  am  happy,  Mr.  Banks,  to  make  your  acquaintance,"  said 
the  stranger  mildly  and  slowly ;  "  I  would  have  waited  on  you  in 
the  morning,  but  I  found  I  needed  rest." 

"  Highly  honoured,  highly  honoured,"  stammered  Mr.  Banks, 
«  but — "  A  horror  came  over  him.  He  moved  a  chair  towards 
the  stranger,  and  wished  him  a  hundred  miles  off. 

The  stranger  bowed  and  took  the  offered  seat :  "  You  can 
guess  who  I  am  ?" 

Mr.  Banks  felt  every  hair  rising  under  his  peruke.  "  I  have 
not  the  honour  to  know  you,"  said  he  with  a  trembling  voice. 

"  I  am  Hahn,  the  son  of  your  old  friend,"  said  the  guest ;  and 
his  voice  sounded  hollow,  and  his  smile  went  with  a  chill  to  the 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  257 

old  man's  heart.  The  stranger  handed  him  a  letter.  It  con- 
tained only  a  few  lines  of  introduction.  The  handwriting  looked 
like  the  old  banker's,  yet  there  was  something  odd  about  it. 

Mr.  Banks  read  it  over  and  over  just  to  gain  time.  His  mind 
was  in  utter  confusion.  In  spite  of  his  terror,  he  was  reluctant 
to  believe  that  this  was  the  notorious  Dead  Guest,  and  yet  he 
could  not  believe  that  the  son  of  his  friend  resembled  so  exactly 
that  frightful  personage.  He  could  not  think  that  imagination 
was  playing  him  a  trick.  He  suddenly  sprang  up  and  with  a 
confused  apology  ran  into  an  adjoining  room  for  his  spectacles, 
merely  to  gain  time.  At  the  same  moment  Paul  caught  fast 
hold  of  the  handle  of  the  door  near  which  he  was  standing,  and 
as  the  Dead  Guest  slowly  turned  round  his  pale  face  upon  him, 
Paul  sprang  out  in  a  twinkling  and  did  not  return  till  he  heard 
Mr.  Banks  come  back. 

Mr.  Banks  did,  indeed,  in  his  haste,  come  to  a  conclusion,  and 
a  desperate  conclusion  it  was.  Pitiably  in  doubt  which  guest  he 
had  here,  he  determined,  at  least,  not  to  deliver  up  the  poor  Fre- 
derika  to  so  suspicious  a  person.  With  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders 
and  a  beating  of  the  heart  he  said  :  "  Harkye,  my  worthy  sir, 
I  have  the  highest  respect  for  you,  but  matters  have  taken  a 
strange  turn.  Had  you  only  come  sooner  !  There's  a  love- 
affair,  an  engagement,  or  what  not,  between  my  daughter  and 
the  Commandant  here — knew  nothing  of  it  till  a  few  days  ago. 
The  Captain  is  my  foster-son.  Will  ye,  nill  ye,  had  to  say  yes. 
I  meant  to  write  and  inform  your  father  of  this  counter-game. 
What  will  my  old  friend  think  ?" 

Here  Mr.  Banks's  voice  failed  him  in  perfect  horror  ;  for,  con- 
trary to  all  expectation,  his  guest  not  only  listened  with  compo- 
sure, but  his  features,  before  sad,  absolutely  brightened  up  at  the 
words,  '  love-affair,'  '  engagement,'  as  much  as  to  say  that  the 
maiden,  being  engaged,  was  the  very  thing  for  him.  Neither 
did  it  escape  Mr.  Banks,  that  the  pale  face,  as  if  fearful  of  be- 
traying itself,  sought  to  recover  its  former  quiet  expression. 

"  Do  not  be  disquieted,"  said  Mr.  Von  Hahn,  "  on  my  father's 
account  or  my  own." 


258  THE    GIFT. 

Mr.  Banks  thought  to  himself,  *  I  see  through  you,'  and  be- 
came still  more  resolved  to  keep  his  Frederika  away  from  this 
horrible  seducer. 

"  You  will  permit  me,"  said  Mr.  Von  Hahn,  "  to  wait  upon 
Miss  Banks  ?" 

"  But,  you—" 

"  It  will  never  do  to  come  to  Herbesheim  and  not  see  the  lady 
who  was  intended  for  me." 

"  Certainly,  but,  you  see — " 

"  I  must  envy  the  Commandant — " 

"  You  are  very  kind." 

"  May  I  beg  for  an  introduction  to  the  lady  ?" 

"  Sorry,  very  sorry — she  has  gone  out — " 

"  I  did  not  mean  this  evening.  I  feel  myself  too  much  fa- 
tigued." 

Mr.  Banks  bowed. 

"  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  permit  me  to  see  the  young  lady 
by  herself  tete-a-tete  ?  I  have  something  to  communicate — " 

Mr.  Banks  thought  again :  '  There  we  have  it.  There  he  goes 
straight  to  his  object.' — He  cleared  his  throat.  The  stranger 
waited  for  him  to  speak.  "  I  hope,"  continued  Von  Hahn,  "  by 
what  I  have  to  say  to  her  to  inspire  her  with  respect  for  my 
intentions,  to  set  her  at  ease  and  secure  her  esteem." 

Mr.  Banks  ransacked  his  brain  for  some  '  if,'  or  l  but,'  to  ward 
off  this  amorous  tete-a-tete.  He  spoke,  but  what  he  said  was 
confused,  from  his  anxiety  not  to  seem  wanting  in  politeness. 
The  Dead  Guest  did  not,  or  would  not,  understand  him,  but  still 
urged  his  request.  Only  the  more  painful  became  the  situation 
of  Mr.  Banks,  who  now  saw  his  fair  daughter  ensnared  by 
hellish  arts,  and  with  her  neck  wrung. 

It  had  become  quite  dark,  and  as  the  Guest  gave  no  sign  of 
going,  Mr.  Banks  started  up,  and  with  a  profusion  of  regrets 
excused  himself  on  the  score  of  petty  engagements.  He  thus 
forced  his  guest  away,  who  took  his  leave  somewhat  gloomily. 

Mr.  Banks  hastened  off  to  the  burgomaster's,  where  he  was 
remarkably  silent.  There  was  nothing  talked  of  but  the  Dead 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  259 

Guest.  All  that  was  said  agreed  only  too  well  with  what  Mr. 
Banks  had  seen.  As  soon  as  he  returned  home  with  his  wife 
and  daughter,  he  told  them  all  about  the  Dead  Guest.  At  first 
the  ladies  were  amazed,  or  rather  terrified.  But  they  smiled 
when  they  heard  the  name  of  the  visiter.  And  they  laughed 
outright  when  they  heard  that  papa  himself  had  announced 
Frederika  as  the  betrothed  of  the  Commandant. 

"  O  papa,  sweet  papa !"  cried  Frederika,  falling  upon  his 
neck  ;  "  pray  keep  to  that." 

"  The  deuce  take  it !"  cried  the  old  man,  "  I  shall  have  to 
keep  to  it." 

"  But  suppose,  dearest  papa,  it  should  turn  out  to  be  Mr.  Von 
Hahn?" 

"  Do  you  think  I  have  no  eyes  ?  It  is  not  he.  It's  a  spectre. 
How  could  young  Hahn  come  upon  the  devil's  chance  of  dis- 
guising himself  as  the  Dead  Guest,  of  whom  he  probably  never 
heard  in  his  life  ?" 

.  The  ladies  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it,  but  they  could  not 
doubt  the  identity  of  Mr.  Von  Hahn.  Their  obstinate  incre- 
dulity only  made  Mr.  Banks  still  more  angry. 

"  And  so  it  must  be,"  cried  he  in  a  tone  of  vexation  and  dis- 
may, "  he  has  bewitched  you  both  !  I  am  no  superstitious  old 
woman.  But  what  I  have  seen,  I  have  seen.  It's  a  hellish 
spectre,  and  has  made  me  almost  crazy.  I  am  of  a  mind  to 
lock  you  both  up  in  the  cellar,  to  keep  you  oit  of  the  way  of 
this  devil's  ghost !" 

"  Precious  papa !"  cried  Frederika,  "  thou  shalt  have  thy  way. 
Be  the  Dead  Guest  Mr.  Von  Hahn  or  not,  I  promise  thee 
solemnly  I  will  never  love  him.  But  give  me  your  father's 
word  that  you  will  never  separate  me  from  George,  whoever 
comes  to  woo  me." 

"  I'd  rather  give  thee  to  the  poorest  beggar  in  the  streets,  let 
him  only  be  a  living  man,  than  to  a  ghost,  a  Satan  !" 

Frederika  slept  that  night  encompassed  by  bright  dreams. 
Mr.  Banks  slept  not  at  all.  The  pale  black  figure  flitted  con- 


260  THE    GIFT. 

tinually  before  him.  Frederika  was  full  of  gratitude  to  the 
ghostly  unknown,  for  having  turned  her  father  so  suddenly 
round,  and  made  him  the  fast  friend  of  Waldrich. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Banks  betook  himself  to  the  burgo- 
master, to  beg  him  to  use  all  his  authority  to  get  the  stranger  out 
of  the  town.  He  related  to  that  officer  all  that  had  taken  place. 

The  burgomaster  smiled  and  shook  his  head,  and  knew  not 
what  to  make  of  this  sudden  superstition  of  the  otherwise  incre- 
dulous Mr.  Banks.  He  promised  to  inquire  into  the  matter,  for 
the  whole  town  was  disturbed  by  this  sudden  apparition. 

As  Mr,  Banks  after  some  hours  returned  home,  he  happened 
upon  reaching  his  house,  to  glance  in  at  one  of  the  windows. 
He  dared  not  believe  his  eyes.  There  sate  the  abominable  Dead 
Guest  in  close  conversation  with  Frederika,  who  smiled  very 
kindly,  and  even  made  no  opposition  when  the  wretch  seized 
her  hand  and  raised  it  to  his  lips !  Every  thing  swam  before 
the  old  man.  His  first  impulse  was  to  rush  in  and  break  up 
this  tender  interview,  but  his  fears  restrained  him,  and  he  has- 
tened, deadly  pale,  to  the  chamber  of  his  wife,  who  was  alarmed 
at  his  looks.  Upon  learning  the  cause  of  his  agitation,  she 
assured  him  that  the  supposed  ghost  was  indeed  the  expected 
lover,  a  modest  young  man,  with  whom  she  and  Frederika  had 
been  talking  some  time. 

"  Modest  enough,  no  doubt,  with  thee,  mamma,  at  thy  years  ; 
but  go  see  how  far  he  has  got  with  Frederika.  They  are  kissing 
each  other !" 

"  Impossible,  papa !" 

"  There,  now,  don't  give  the  lie  to  my  eyes.  She  is  lost ! 
You  are  bewitched,  or  you  would  never  have  left  them  alone." 

"  Dear  husband,  he  asked  leave  to  explain  himself  to  Freddy 
alone.  Away  with  these  foolish  fancies !  How  can  you  be  so 
befooled  and  become  so  superstitious  ?" 

"  Befooled  !  superstitious  !  only  prudent — on  my  guard.  I 
won't  be  cheated.  The  maiden  is  too  dear.  I  command  you  to 
break  off  with  this  Mr.  Von  Hahn,  as  you  call  him." 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  261 

"  But  what  will  his  father  say  ?" 

"  No  matter  what  his  father  says, — he  has  not  death  or  the 
devil  for  a  son !  Go,  I  beg  thee,  send  the  fellow  away." 

Mrs.  Banks  was  embarrassed.  "  Dear  husband,"  said  she, 
"  think  what  you  are  doing  from  a  foolish  fancy.  If  you  insist 
upon  it,  I  will  obey ;  but  Frederika  and  I  have  invited  him  to 
dinner." 

"  It's  enough  to  give  one  an  apoplexy  !  To  dinner,  indeed ! 
I'll  not  have  him  here." 

At  this  moment  Frederika  entered,  looking  very  happy. 
"  Where  is  Mr.  Von  Hahn  ?"  asked  her  mother  with  a  dis- 
turbed air. 

"  He  has  just  gone  for  a  moment,  but  he'll  soon  be  back.  He 
is  a  delightful  man." 

"  There,  there !"  cried  Mr.  Banks,  "  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
see  how  he  has  bewitched  her !  A  delightful  man !  What !  do 
you  love  Waldrich  ?  O  that  he  were  here !  But  away  !  I'll  not 
have  that  fellow  here.  Tell  him  any  thing — that  I  am  sick, 
— that  we  are  very  sorry — can't  see  him." 

"  But  listen  to  me,"  said  Frederika  in  alarm ;  "  you  shall  hear 
all,  papa.  He  is  a  most  excellent  man, — you — " 

"  Hush !"  cried  Mr.  Banks,  "  I  won't  hear  a  word.  I've 
heard  too  much.  Listen  to  me,  child  :  I  cannot,  I  will  not,  have 
any  thing  to  do  with  this  fellow.  If  you  will  induce  this  excel- 
lent man  to  quit  Herbesheim  for  ever,  I  give  you  my  word  you 
shall  keep  George,  even  though  the  real  son  of  my  friend  were 
to  come.  I  promise  you  to  write  to  his  father  and  break  off  the 
connexion  at  once.  Now  tell  me,  will  you  induce  him  to  pack 
up  and  be  off?" 

"Agreed!"  cried  Frederika,  "for,  you  see,  he  will  go,  only  let. 
me  speak  with  him  a  few  moments  privately." 

"  There  it  is  again  !  No,  I  say,  away  !  write  to  him — but  he 
shall  not  come  to  dinner." 

No  expostulation  availed  ;  so  Frederika  wrote  to  the  banker, 
apologized  for  being  compelled,  by  her  father's  illness,  to  recall 

23 


262  THE    GIFT. 

the  invitation  to  dinner,  and  begged  him,  by  his  regard  for  her, 
to  leave  the  town,  as  the  peace  of  the  family  hung  upon  his 
departure.  She  promised  to  write  him  soon  and  tell  him  the 
reasons  of  this  ungracious  but  pressing  request. 

A  servant  carried  Frederika's  note  to  the  inn.  The  knave 
went  with  all  speed,  as  he  hoped  to  catch  a  sight,  at  a  safe  dis- 
tance, of  the  much  talked  of  Dead  Guest.  But  when  he  opened 
the  door  of  the  banker's  room,  to  which  he  had  been  shown,  he 
started  with  affright  when  he  saw  the  black  pale  gentleman,  and 
heard  him  ask  in  a  hollow  voice,  "  What  do  you  want  ?"  The 
figure  seemed  to  him  blacker,  paler,  taller,  than  he  had  thought. 

"Save  your  honour!"  stammered  the  terrified  fellow;  "I 
want  nothing  of  your  honour,  but  of  Mr.  Von  Hahn." 

"  I  am  Mr.  Von  Hahn." 

"  You  !"  said  the  poor  man,  while  he  felt  as  if  his  trembling 
legs  were  glued  to  the  floor ;  "  for  God's  sake,  let  me  go !" 

"  I  don't  keep  you.     Who  sent  you  ?" 

"  Miss  Banks." 

"What  for?" 

"This  letter — you  should — "  But  without  waiting  to  finish  the 
sentence,  as  the  banker  stept  towards  him,  the  terrified  man 
threw  down  the  letter  and  was  off. 

Mr.  Von  Hahn  muttered,  "  Are  the  people  here  all  mad  ?" 
read  the  note,  knit  his  brows,  and  went  whistling  up  and  down 
the  room. 

There  was  a  timid  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  landlord  en- 
tered, cap  in  hand,  with  many  bows. 

"You  come  at  the  right  time,  Mr.  Landlord.  Is  dinner 
ready?"  said  the  black  gentleman. 

"  Our  fare  will  hardly  suit  your  honour." 

"  It  is  well  cooked ;  that's  enough.     I  never  eat  much." 

"  The  fare  is  better  at  the  Golden  Angel." 

"  I  don't  care  for  the  Angel.  I  shall  stay  at  the  Cross.  You 
are  the  most  modest  host  I  ever  saw.  Let  me  have  dinner." 

The  landlord  played  with  his  cap,  and  seemed  to  have  some- 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  263 

thing  on  his  mind.  The  black  gentleman  did  not  remark  it  at 
first,  but  walked  up  and  down,  lost  in  thought.  As  often  as  he 
approached  the  host,  the  latter  instantly  shrunk  away  from  him. 

"  Do  you  want  any  thing,  Mr.  Landlord  ?"  inquired  the 
banker,  at  last. 

"  I  hope  your  honour  will  not  take  it  ill  of  me — " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  Out  with  it !  Come !"  And  with  this  the 
Dead  Guest  extended  his  arm  to  give  the  landlord  a  friendly 
clap  on  the  shoulder.  But  mine  host,  not  understanding  the 
movement,  fancied  the  worst,  and  thought  of  nothing  but  that 
the  Guest  was  going  to  try  upon  his  neck  and  head  the  trick 
which  he  had  played  upon  the  poor  maidens.  Thus  menaced, 
the  man  ducked  down  almost  to  the  floor,  and  with  one  leap  was 
out  of  the  door  in  a  flash. 

Vexatious  as  this  conduct  was,  Mr.  Von  Hahn  could  not  help 
laughing.  He  had  observed  the  same  fear  of  him  in  all  quarters. 
"  Do  they  hold  me,"  thought  he,  "  for  a  second  Dr.  Faust  ?" 

Again  some  one  knocked.  The  door  opened  a  little  way,  and 
a  military  head,  with  a  Roman  nose  and  tremendous  whiskers, 
was  poked  in,  with  the  question,  "Am  I  right?  Is  it  Mr.  Von 
Hahn  ?" 

"  It  is." 

A  stout  man  in  police  livery  stepped  forward.  "  Mr.  Burgo- 
master requests  your  honour  to  come  to  him  instantly." 

"  Instantly !  That  sounds  somewhat  magisterially.  Where 
does  he  live?" 

"  At  the  end  of  the  street,  sir,  in  the  house  with  a  balcony.  I 
will  attend  you." 

"  That  is  not  necessary,  my  good  friend." 

"  Mr.  Burgomaster  has  so  ordered." 

"  And  you  obey  implicitly.     You  have  been  a  soldier,  eh  ?" 

"  In  the  third  regiment  of  hussars." 

"  In  what  battle  did  you  get  that  pretty  scar  on  your  fore- 
head?" 

"  Hem ! — worthy  sir,  in  a  skirmish  with  a  comrade  about  a 
pretty  maiden." 


264  THE    GIFT. 

"  Ah  !  then  your  wife  does  not  like  to  look  at  that  scar,  unless, 
indeed,  she  were  that  pretty  maiden." 

"  I  have  no  wife." 

"  A  sweetheart,  then  ?  Now  tell  me,  wouldn't  she  be  vexed 
if  she  knew  all?" 

The  Whiskerando  knit  his  brows.  The  questioner  was  amused 
to  read  in  the  face  of  the  hero  a  sort  of  confirmation  of  his  con- 
jecture, and  he  continued:  "But  never  fear.  That  very  scar 
proves  to  your  deary  how  much  you  would  venture  for  a  single 
glance  of  her  black  eyes." 

The  police  officer  changed  colour,  and  his  eyes  grew  big. 
"  Your  honour,"  stammered  he,  "  do  you  know  the  maiden 
already?" 

"  And  why  shouldn't  I  ?  Isn't  she  the  prettiest  girl  in  the 
whole  place?"  replied  Mr.  Von  Hahn,  smiling,  tickled  at  the 
idea  of  finding  out  the  love-affairs  of  the  police  officer,  to  whom 
the  roguish  smile  of  the  pale  countenance  seemed  absolutely 
demoniacal. 

"  Does  your  honour  know  her  already  ?  How  is  it  possible  ? 
You  came  only  yesterday.  I  have  kept  watch  before  the  milli- 
ner's, and  when  I  was  not  there,  another  took  my  place.  You 
did  not  get  into  the  house  by  any  visible  means." 

"  My  good  friend,  it  is  easy  to  get  acquainted  with  a  pretty 
girl,  and  houses  have  back  doors." 

The  Blackbeard  stood  dismayed,  for  he  remembered  now  that 
there  was  a  back  door.  His  alarm  made  Mr.  Von  Hahn  only 
the  more  malicious,  and  he  set  himself  to  make  the  policeman  a 
little  jealous. 

"  Then  she's  a  little  shy,  eh !  in  spite  of  all  your  tenderness  ? 
I  thought  so !  That  scar  !" 

"  Oh  no,  worthy  sir,  not  the  scar !  but — excuse  me — you,  you 
yourself — " 

"  How !  I  ?  Don't  dream  of  me.  Fie,  you  are  jealous  !  But 
let  us  make  a  bargain.  Understand  me — " 

"  I  understand  you  only  too  well — but  nothing  of  that.  God 
have  mercy  on  me  !" 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  265 

"  Do  you  introduce  me  to  the  fair  milliner,  and  I  will  recon- 
cile her  to  your  scar." 

A  shudder  came  over  the  policeman.  And  then  with  a  stiff 
official  air,  he  requested  Mr.  Von  Hahn's  attendance  at  the 
burgomaster's. 

"  I  will  go,  but  I  excuse  your  company." 

"  But  I  am  ordered  to  attend  you." 

"  And  I  order  otherwise.  So  go  and  tell  Mr.  Burgomaster. 
If  you  make  the  least  demur,  look  out  for  your  sweetheart." 

"  Sir,  for  God's  sake !"  cried  the  worthy  officer,  in  the  greatest 
alarm,  "  I  obey — but,  for  heaven's  sake,  let  the  innocent  crea- 
ture live !" 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  eat  her  up  out  of  pure  love  ?" 

"  Your  word  of  honour,  worthy  sir,  that  you  will  spare  the 
poor  child,  and  then  I  will  do  as  you  bid,  even  if  you  should  ask 
my  life." 

"  Be  quiet,  I  give  you  my  word  to  spare  her.  But  what  are 
you  afraid  of?  Who  has  any  designs  against  her?" 

"  You  have  given  your  word.  It  is  enough.  What  pleasure 
could  it  give  you  to  wring  the  neck  of  poor  Kitty?  I  go.  You 
may  go  alone.  Even  the  devil  must  keep  his  word." 

With  this  the  poor  fellow  vanished.  He  heard  the  Dead  Guest 
laugh  after  him.  It  went  to  his  very  soul.  It  was  the  laugh  of 
Satan.  He  hastened  to  the  burgomaster,  and  related,  to  the 
astonishment  of  the  same,  all  that  had  taken  place. 


THE  EXAMINATION. 

Laughing  to  himself  at  the  agony  of  the  policeman,  whose 
jealousy  he  fancied  he  had  excited,  Mr.  Von  Hahn  took  his  hat 
and  cane,  and  went  to  the  burgomaster's.  He  soon  perceived, 
as  he  went,  that  he  was  in  a  small  town,  where  a  stranger  was 
gaped  at  like  a  wild  animal ;  and  one  might  wear  out  a  dozen 
hats  a  year  in  returning  salutations.  Right  and  left  the  way 
was  opened  for  "him  with  precipitate  politeness  and  low  bows. 

23* 


266  THE    GIFT. 

No  king  could  receive  profoimder  homage.  At  a  little  distance 
from  the  house  of  the  burgomaster,  he  came  upon  a  public  foun- 
tain, around  which  stood  gossiping  a  number  of  women  with  tubs 
and  buckets.  Some  were  scraping  fish,  some  washing  salad, 
while  others  were  placing  their  vessels  under  the  mouths  of  the 
fountain.  To  be  certain  of  the  burgomaster's  residence,  Mr. 
Von  Hahn  stepped  aside  to  inquire  of  this  busy  group,  who, 
engrossed  with  their  chat,  had  not  observed  him.  But  when  he 
spoke  and  they  turned  to  look  at  him — mercy  !  what  a  shriek ! 
what  a  panic  !  how  they  scattered !  One  let  her  fish  drop, 
another  flung  her  salad  into  the  dirt,  a  third  let  her  full  bucket 
fall  from  her  head,  and  all  ran  off  pale  and  breathless.  But  one 
old  woman,  whose  feet  were  no  longer  nimble,  backed  up  against 
one  of  the  pillars  that  supported  the  roof  over  the  fountain,  as  if 
she  would  push  it  over,  crossing  herself  again  and  again  with 
her  skinny  hand, — her  mouth  wide  open,  her  eyes  fastened  upon 
him  in  utter  despair,  and  every  hair  rising  on  her  head.  So  has 
the  reader  seen  a  cat  stand  before  a  barking  dog,  with  back 
raised,  hair  erect,  mouth  open,  and  following  with  her  eyes 
every  motion  of  her  noisy  assailant.  Vexed  at  the  silly  folly  of 
the  people,  Mr.  Von  Hahn  turned  away  and  went  directly  to  the 
house  with  the  balcony.  The  burgomaster  received  him  very 
politely,  and  conducted  him  into  his  room. 

"  You  have  sent  for  me,"  said  Mr.  Von  Hahn,  "  and  indeed  I 
come  very  willingly,  for  I  hope  you  will  solve  the  riddle  for  me. 
I  have  been  in  your  city  only  since  yesterday,  and  have  already 
met  with  more  adventures  than  in  all  my  life  before." 

'*  I  can  readily  believe  it,"  said  the  burgomaster,  smiling ;  "  I 
have  heard  something  of  it.  You  are  Mr.  Von  Hahn  from  the 
Residence,  and  have  come  because  Miss  Banks — " 

"  Just  so."  And  the  young  banker  drew  some  papers  from 
his  pocket.  The  burgomaster  just  glanced  over  these  vouchers 
of  his  identity,  and  returned  them  with  expressions  of  entire 
satisfaction.  "  I  have  now  made  you  acquainted,  Mr.  Burgo- 
master, with  every  thing  you  wished  to  know.  Pray  give  me 
some  information  about  your  strange  town.  You  certainly  do 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  267 

not  lie  so  remote  but  that  strangers  sometimes  come  hither :  how 
comes  it  that  the  people  here  treat  me — " 

"  I  know  what  you  would  say,  Mr.  Von  Hahn.  You  shall 
know  all,  if  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  answer  me  a  few 
questions." 

"  I  am  at  your  service." 

"  Count  my  questions  as  among  the  strange  things  of  Herbes- 
heim.  Do  you  commonly  wear  black  ?" 

"  I  am  in  mourning  for  an  aunt." 

"  Have  you  ever  been  here  before  ?" 

«  Never." 

"  Have  you  not  had  acquaintance  with  some  persons  of  this 
town,  or  read  or  heard  something  of  its  traditions  or  legends  1" 

"  I  knew  nothing  of  this  place  but  that  Mr.  Banks  resided 
here,  and  that  Miss  Banks  was  a  very  lovely  young  lady ;  a 
piece  of  information  which  I  am  now  happy  to  confirm." 

"  Have  you  never  read  or  heard  the  story  of  the  Dead  Guest?" 

"  I  repeat  it,  I  am  as  ignorant  of  your  town  as  of  the  history 
of  Siam." 

"  It  happens,  Mr.  Von  Hahn,  that  your  adventures  among  us 
accord  exactly  with  a  popular  tradition  of  ours." 

"  What  have  I  to  do  with  your  traditions,  pray  ?" 

The  burgomaster  smiled  and  replied,  "  They  take  you  for  the 
Dead  Guest,  a  ghost  of  our  legends,  and,  however  ridiculous  the 
fancy  may  be,  I  cannot  (pardon  my  frankness)  conceal  my 
wonder  at  the  close  resemblance  between  you  and  the  hero  of 
one  of  our  tales  of  terror.  Presuming  that  you  are  not  playing 
a  joke  upon  us,  and  that  you  are  ignorant  of  the  story  of  the 
Dead  Guest,  I  will  tell  it  to  you  as  I  have  heard  it." 

As  Mr.  Von  Hahn  showed  the  greatest  curiosity,  the  burgo- 
master proceeded  to  relate  the  story. 

"  Now  I  understand  it !"  said  Mr.  Von  Hahn  with  a  laugh ; 
"  the  fair  ladies  of  Herbesheim  are  in  fear  for  their  necks." 

*'  Jesting  aside,  Mr.  Von  Hahn,  I  am  still  somewhat  puzzled. 
I  believe  in  the  oddest  tricks  of  Chance ;  and  yet  the  wild  god 


268  THE    GIFT. 

plays  so  strange  a  game  here,  that  I  cannot  help  suspecting  you 
a  little." 

"  Mr.  Burgomaster,  you  do  not  really  suppose  that  I  am  the 
ghost?" 

"  Not  exactly,  but  you  may  have  heard  of  our  legend,  and 
availed  yourself  of  your  figure,  to  amuse  yourself  with  our 
terrors.  Why,  for  instance,  did  you  choose  the  first  Advent 
Sunday  for  your  arrival,  and  even  the  very  moment  when  the 
storm  was  at  the  worst  ?" 

"  It  is  remarkable,  this  coincidence.  It  surprises  myself.  But 
I  can  assure  you,  I  know  so  little  of  the  calendar  that  I  did  not 
know  till  now  that  this  is  the  first  of  Advent.  And  I  declare  I 
did  not  order  the  rain,  for  it  is  very  disagreeable  to  me." 

"  But,  Mr.  Von  Hahn,  explain  the  grip  you  made  this  morning 
at  the  neck  of  mine  host,  if  you  did  not  know  any  thing  of  the 
Dead  Guest." 

"  Aha !"  said  Mr.  Von  Hahn,  laughing  aloud,  "  that's  the 
reason  the  poor  fellow  ducked  so — I  only  meant  to  clap  him  on 
the  shoulder,  but  the  movement  was  suspicious,  I  confess." 

"  Once  more,  Mr.  Von  Hahn,  do  you  know  the  young  woman 
Weasel?" 

"  Many  weasels  I  know,  but  no  young  woman  of  that  beau- 
tiful name." 

"  Yet  they  say  that  you  know  her,  and  even  went  to  see  her 
by  the  back  door." 

"  The  back  door !  The  young  woman  Weasel !  Oh  !  I  see, 
— the  goddess  of  your  policeman.  Now  I  understand  his  en- 
treaties." 

"  Yet  once  more,  Mr.  Von  Hahn,  you  see  I  know  all  your 
steps.  So  far  all  is  explained — but  how  came  you,  in  a  few 
moments,  so  well  acquainted  with  Miss  Banks  that  you — I  don't 
know  how  to  express  it." 

The  blush  which  this  query  caused  did  not  escape  the  sharp 
eyes  of  the  burgomaster.  "  I  crave  your  pardon,"  said  he, 
"  but  the  Dead  Guest  is  famous  for  his  powers  of  fascination, — 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  269 

powers,  which  I  can  easily  believe  you  to  possess,  without  sup- 
posing you  the  ghost." 

Mr.  Von  Hahn  paused  and  then  said :  "  Mr.  Burgomaster,  I 
shall  soon  be  as  afraid  of  you,  as  you  people  are  of  my  black 
dress.  I  was  with  Miss  Banks  only  a  short  time.  Either  your 
walls  have  told  you  tales,  in  which  case  you  know  all,  or  not. 
At  all  events,  it  becomes  me  to  let  the  curtain  hang,  unless  Miss 
Banks  chooses  to  raise  it  herself."  The  burgomaster  intimated 
that  he  would  not  press  the  point,  and  then  turned  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"  Do  you  remain  long  with  us,  Mr.  Von  Hahn  ?" 

"  I  go  to-morrow.  My  business  is  ended,  and  truly  it  is  not 
very  agreeable  to  play  the  scarecrow." 

The  burgomaster  was  relieved  by  this  declaration,  and  Mr. 
Von  Hahn  soon  took  his  leave. 

After  all  the  affair  seemed  very  strange.  For  the  combination 
of  circumstances  that  seemed  to  stamp  Mr.  Von  Hahn  as  the 
Dead  Guest  was  quite  too  extraordinary  for  the  usual  course  of 
things.  Still  less  was  there  reason  to  doubt  the  word  of  the 
stranger.  When  his  visiter  left  him,  the  burgomaster  turned  to 
the  window  to  watch  the  effect  which  the  appearance  of  Mr. 
Von  Hahn  would  have  in  the  street.  But  to  his  astonishment, 
the  gentleman  did  not  appear.  The  burgomaster  waited,  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  still  he  waited  in  vain.  He  then  rung 
the  bell.  A  servant  came,  but  declared  that  he  had  been  at 
the  door  a  full  hour,  and  no  person  in  black  had  passed  out. 
The  servant  was  dismissed.  "  There's  something  very  much 
like  a  ghost  here !"  murmured  the  burgomaster,  and  turned  again 
to  the  window.  In  a  few  moments  the  servant  returned  and  said 
that  the  chambermaid,  all  in  a  tremble,  reported  that  the  Dead 
Guest  was  with  Miss,  the  burgomaster's  daughter;  that  the  young 
lady  seemed  well  acquainted  with  him,  and  he  had  given  her  a 
splendid  pair  of  bracelets,  and  whispered  something  which  the 
chambermaid  could  not  hear.  The  burgomaster  laughed  at  first, 
but  all  inclination  to  laugh  vanished  when  he  heard  of  the  brace- 
lets and  the  whispering.  "  Bracelets  !  Whispering  with  my  Min- 


270  THE    GIFT. 

chen  !  How  came  he  to  know  her  ?  Jesu  Maria !"  So  he  said 
to  himself,  and  was  on  the  point  of  running  in  and  taking  his 
daughter  and  the  stranger  by  surprise ;  but  he  became  ashamed 
of  his  budding  superstition,  and  put  the  rein  upon  his  anxiety. 
But  the  suspense  became  intolerable.  He  went  to  his  daughter 
and  found  her  seated  at  the  window  admiring  the  bracelets. 
"  What  have  you  there,  Minchen  ?"  asked  he  with  a  faltering 
voice. 

"  A  present  from  Mr.  Von  Hahn  for  Frederika  Banks,"  said 
the  young  lady  very  calmly ;  "  he  leaves  to-morrow,  and  has 
his  reasons  for  not  going  again  to  Mr.  Banks's.  I  am  to  give 
her  these." 

"  And  where  did  you  get  acquainted  with  him  ?" 

"  I  was  introduced  to  him  this  morning  by  Freddy.  I  was 
terribly  frightened  when  I  first  saw  him,  the  real,  living,  Dead 
Guest !  But  he  is  a  very  good  man.  I  met  him  here  again  just 
as  he  left  you,  and  he  gave  me  this  commission." 

Minchen  stated  all  this  very  simply,  and  it  appeared  very 
natural  to  the  burgomaster.  The  police  officer  was  directed  to 
be  on  the  watch  the  next  morning,  and  ascertain  whether  the 
stranger  really  took  his  departure. 

The  burgomaster,  although  a  man  without  superstition,  had 
rather  a  wakeful  night.  He  ran  through  the  whole  legend,  and 
compared  it  with  the  hour  of  Mr.  Von  Hahn's  arrival,  his  figure, 
his  paleness,  his  black  garb,  his  slippery  presents,  his  quick 
intimacy  with  engaged  young  ladies,  for  Minchen  was  about  to 
be  betrothed;  and  the  young  woman,  Weasel,  had  actually 
confessed  to  the  policeman  that  the  Black  Guest  had  been  in  her 
shop,  though  she  stoutly  denied  his  having  come  by  the  back 
door.  On  the  whole,  Mr.  Burgomaster  had  a  very  uncom- 
fortable night  of  it. 

Before  the  policeman  reached  the  Black  Cross  the  next  morn- 
ing, he  heard  on  the  way  that  the  Dead  Guest  and  his  servant 
had  disappeared,  bag  and  baggage,  no  one  knew  how.  This 
news  the  host  confirmed.  He  led  the  officer  into  the  room 
which  the  pretended  Mr.  Von  Hahn  had  occupied.  There  all 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  271 

was  in  order.  The  beds  stood  untumbled.  Nothing  was  left 
behind,  except  on  the  table  lay  the  full  amount  due  in  hard 
dollars. 

"  Take  the  devil's  money,  who  will !"  said  the  host,  "  no 
blessing  goes  with  it.  I'll  give  it  to  the  poor,"  and  he  handed  it 
to  the  policeman  for  the  hospital. 

The  rumour  of  the  sudden  disappearance  of  the  Dead  Guest 
spread  through  the  whole  town.  It  came  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Banks 
before  they  had  left  their  beds. 

"  Wonderful !"  said  Mr.  Banks,  "  now  then,  what  do  you  say 
to  that  ?  I  am  glad  he  is  gone.  I  tell  you,  that  never  was  the 
son  of  my  old  friend.  But  who  would  have  believed  such  non- 
sense, if  he  had  not  been  an  eye-witness  !" 

Mrs.  Banks  smiled,  but  knew  not  what  to  say.  She  was  con- 
vinced there  must  be  some  explanation. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Banks  showed  signs  of  extreme  terror,  and 
became  so  pale  that  Mrs.  Banks  grew  alarmed.  At  last  he 
exclaimed,  with  a  faltering  voice,  "  Mamma,  as  one  thing  is 
true,  so  may  the  rest  be." 

"  What  now,  for  heaven's  sake?" 

"  Do  you  believe  Frederika  is  still  asleep  ?  Have  you  heard 
the  slightest  noise,  even  a  footstep,  in  her  room  ?" 

"  Speak  out,  papa,  do  you  really  suppose  that  the  child  is — " 

"  If  one  part  is  true,  so  may  the  rest  be ;  but  it  would  be  too 
horrible,  mamma !  I  dare  not  go  and  see." 

"  See  what  ?     Is  it  possible  you  believe  she  is — " 

"  Yes,  I  do  believe  her  neck  is  wrung !"  cried  the  old  man, 
springing  out  of  the  room,  full  of  terrible  imaginings.  Mrs. 
Banks  tripped  after  him.  He  laid  his  trembling  hand  on  the 
handle  of  Frederika's  door.  He  opened  it  softly,  scarcely  able 
to  breathe,  and  when  no  voice  spoke,  he  did  not  venture  to 
glance  even  at  the  bed.  "  Do  you  look,  mamma !"  said  he,  in 
the  most  pitiable  distress. 

"  She  sleeps  sweetly,"  said  Mrs.  Banks. 

He  looked  towards  the  bed.     There  lay  his   fair  daughter, 


272  THE    GIFT. 

her  lovely  face  in  all  the  serenity  of  the  morning  slumber,  in  its 
right  place. 

"But  is  she  alive  I"  asked  Mr.  Banks;  for  the  gentle  rise 
and  fall  of  her  bosom  seemed  to  him  an  optical  delusion.  He 
touched  her  warm  hand  and  was  relieved,  but  still  more  when 
she  opened  her  eyes,  and  her  first  look  was  a  gentle  and  won- 
dering smile.  Mamma  explained  to  her  the  visit,  and  all  were 
set  at  ease. 


ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 

But  the  peace  of  the  family  was  complete  when,  at  supper,  on 
the  evening  of  the  same  day,  a  carriage  came  rapidly  down  the 
street.  Frederika  listened  and  then  sprang  up,  exclaiming, 
"  George !"  It  was  he.  All  rushed  to  meet  him.  Never  before 
had  Mr.  Banks  welcomed  him  so  heartily.  A  thousand  questions 
were  asked  and  answered  and  asked  again.  "  And  just  think," 
cried  Mr.  Banks,  "just  think,  my  dear  fellow,  my  precious  Cap- 
tain, we  have  had  that  devil's  knave,  the  Dead  Guest,  here  alive 
in  Herbesheim,  here  in  this  house  !  What  do  you  say  to  that  ? 
In  less  than  four-and-twenty  hours  he  had  fished  out  his  three 
brides,  Freddy,  and  the  burgomaster's  Minchen,  and  the  young 
Mistress  Weasel.  We  have  been  terribly  frightened." 

The  Captain  laughed  and  said,  "  But  I  have  dined  with  him 
to-day  at  the  post-house.  You  mean  Mr.  Von  Hahn  of  course  ?" 

Mr.  Banks  smiled,  but  with  an  air  of  vexation.  "  Mr.  Von 
Hahn  here,  and  Mr.  Von  Hahn  there !  I  don't  care  what  you  call 
him,  but  it  was  the  Dead  Guest,  and  he  shall  not  have  Freddy, 
even  if  he  is  Mr.  Von  Hahn.  If  he  is  the  son  of  my  old  friend, 
so  much  the  worse,  for  he  looks  exactly  as  you  described  the 
Dead  Guest." 

"  Ah !"  cried  the  Captain,  "  in  that  he  is  entirely  innocent. 
When,  on  that  evening,  I  had  to  relate  the  old  legend  of  the 
Dead  Guest,  in  the  haste  of  the  occasion  I  could  think  of  no 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  273 

original  for  my  picture  but  Mr.  Von  Hahn.  He  happened  to 
occur  to  me,  because  he  was  just  then  particularly  disagreeable 
to  me.  When  I  was  on  my  way  to  Herbesheim  with  my  com- 
pany this  summer,  I  met  at  an  ordinary  with  a  very  tall  pale 
man  in  black,  who  I  was  told  was  Mr.  Von  Hahn,  the  son  of  the 
great  banker.  He  then  awakened  in  me  very  little  interest, 
except  for  the  singularity  of  his  appearance.  That  I  could  not 
forget,  and  it  came  up  vividly  before  me,  when  he  ceased  to  be 
uninteresting,  because — permit  me  to  say  it — because  I  knew 
that  he  was  intended  for  our  Frederika." 

"  Thunder !"  cried  Mr.  Banks,  laughing  out  and  clapping  his 
hand  to  his  forehead,  "  the  fancy  sketch  of  a  rival !  Nothing 
more  !  Why  didn't  I  guess,  as  soon  as  I  saw  him,  that  the 
roguish  Captain  probably  knew  Von  Hahn,  and  carved  the  Dead 
Guest  out  of  him  ?  But,  Mr.  Commandant,  you'll  have  to  pay 
for  it.  How  the  young  Hahn  will  curse  and  swear  at  being 
treated  so  !  He'll  call  me  an  old  Hans  Kaspar,  and  what  not." 

"  No  such  thing,  papa !"  cried  Waldrich ;  "  on  the  contrary, 
he  is  quite  happy  at  the  turn  things  have  taken,  and  sends  his 
respects  to  all  of  you.  He  and  I  are  right  good  friends,  for  we 
have  confided  to  one  another  all  our  secrets.  When  we  first 
met  .together  to-day  at  dinner  as  strangers,  we  were  dull  and 
silent.  He  did  not  know  me.  I  knew  him  and  supposed  he 
was  on  his  way  hither.  Accidentally  I  heard  him  say  that  he 
had  come  from  Herbesheim,  and  then  I  grew  curious  to  know 
more.  When  he  found  out  who  I  was,  *  Aha  !'  he  cried,  extend- 
ing his  hand,  '  my  lucky  rival,  for  whose  luck,  however,  I  am 
very  thankful.'  Frankness  became  the  order  of  the  day.  Only 
think,  papa,  he  asserted  that  Frederika  herself  told  him  that  she 
and  I  were  engaged,  and  that  he  had  kissed  her  hand  and  assured 
her  that  his  affections  were  engaged  too  to  a  young  lady,  of 
whom  his  father  disapproved  on  account  of  her  poverty,  and 
that  he  had  come  to  Herbesheim  only  in  blind  obedience  to  his 
father's  will,  and  with  the  hope  of  breaking  off  the  affair  some 
way  or  other.  He  praised  the  constancy  of  his  beloved,  and  is 
resolved  to  marry  her  by  and  by." 

24 


274  THE    GIFT. 

"  What !"  cried  Mr.  Banks,  "  and  you,  Freddy,  knew  all  this 
from  himself?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  something  about  it  ?" 

Frederika  kissed  her  father's  hand  and  said:  "Dear  father,  do 
not  reproach  your  Frederika.  Don't  you  recollect  when  I  came 
so  happy  from  my  interview  with  Mr.  Von  Hahn  and  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  every  thing,  how  angry  you  got,  and  how  you  forbade 
me  to  utter  a  word,  and  promised  if  I  would  obey  you  that  Mr. 
Von  Hahn  should  be  exchanged  for  Waldrich  1  Don't  you  re- 
member it  ?" 

"  Indeed  !  did  I  do  all  that  ?  O  this  beautiful  filial  obedience  ! 
there's  nothing  like  it,  when  one  expects  to  get  something  by  it !" 

"  Ought  I  not  then  to  have  obeyed  you  ?  Did  you  not  threaten 
to  lock  dear  mamma  and  me  in  the  cellar  if—" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  little  blab !  But  why  could  you  not 
have  told  Mr.  Von  Hahn  all  about  the  foolish  stories  here  1  At 
least  you  ought  to  have  given  him  a  respectable  reason  for  the 
manner  in  which  we  treated  him." 

"  I  did  give  him  a  very  good  reason,  papa.  I  told  him  I  was 
engaged,  and  it  appeared  that  he  was  too.  What  better  reason 
could  be  found  ?  We  invited  him  to  dinner,  you  know,  but — " 

"  Hush  ! — My  dear  Commandant,  he  was  not  angry,  then  ? 
But  doesn't  he  think  us  all  a  parcel  of  ninnies  ?" 

"  Something  very  like  it,"  replied  Waldrich.  "  The  conduct 
of  the  people  annoyed  him  till  he  found  out  the  cause.  And 
then  it  amused  him  mightily,  and  he  resolved  to  carry  out  the 
joke." 

"And  you,  you  alone,  Mr.  Commandant,"  cried  Frederika, 
"  with  your  wicked  story,  you  must  answer  for  it  all !  Who  in 
the  world  knew  how  the  Dead  Guest  looked  till  you  told  us  at 
the  party  ?  The  next  day  the  boys  were  talking  about  it  in  the 
streets." 

"  But  I  confessed  my  sins  to  Mr.  Von  Hahn,"  said  Waldrich, 
"  as  soon  as  I  could  get  my  breath  for  laughing.  That  I  should 
have  happened  to  light  upon  his  figure  when  I  described  the 
Dead  Guest,  was  quite  pardonable.  But  I  no  more  thought  of 
the  effect  it  would  produce  than  of  the  skies  falling.  Mr.  Von 


THE    DEAD    GUEST.  275 

Hahn  laughed  as  heartily  as  I,  and  told  me  how  he  had  come  off 
privately  to  worry  the  enlightened  Herbesheimers." 

Father  Banks,  although  a  good  deal  amused,  appeared  to  be 
in  conflict  with  himself.  Vexation  and  pleasure  were  curiously 
mingled  in  his  countenance.  "  Let  us  have  done,"  said  he  at 
last,  "  with  all  this  nonsense.  Even  the  bravest,  who  has  heard 
dozens  of  balls  whistle  by  his  ears,  has  his  running-away 
moments,  the  purest  bride  of  heaven  in  a  cloister  is  sometimes 
no  better  than  a  daughter  of  Eve,  and  the  wisest  man  under  the 
moon  has  his  times  when  Tom  Fool  is  wiser  than  he." 

"  Do  let  us  talk  of  something  else  then,"  said  Frederika. 
"  Papa,  do  you  begin." 

"  Apropos,  my  dear  Commandant,"  cried  Mr.  Banks,  "  do 
you  know  I  have  sold  you  ?  To  get  clear  of  the  Dead  Guest,  I 
have  sold  you  to  Freddy  there.  Don't  be  angry.  As  your 
former  guardian,  I  thought  I  might  take  something  upon  myself. 
There,  Freddy,  take  him  and  be  happy  together." 

Both  sprang  up  and  fell  upon  his  neck. 

"  But  stop  !"  cried  he.  "  Waldrich,  away  with  your  uniform, 
for  Freddy  must  live  with  us.  I  have  given  you  to  her,  not  her 
to  you." 

"  I  will  ask  my  dismissal  to-morrow,  papa." 

"  Children  !"  said  Father  Banks,  while  he  gave  way  to  his 
emotion  amidst  their  embraces,  "  your  joy  somewhat  chokes  me 
or  the  like.  Mamma,  bring  the  wine !" 


THE  HEMLOCK  TREE. 

TRANSLATED    FROM    THE   GERMAN. 
BY  HENRY  W.  LONGFELLOW. 

O  HEMLOCK  tree !  O  hemlock  tree  !  how  faithful  are  thy  branches  ! 

Green  not  alone  in  summer  time, 

But  in  the  winter's  frost  and  rime ! 
O  hemlock  tree !  O  hemlock  tree  !  how  faithful  are  thy  branches  ! 

O  maiden  fair !  O  maiden  fair !  how  faithless  is  thy  bosom ! 

To  love  me  in  prosperity, 

And  leave  me  in  adversity. 
O  maiden  fair !  O  maiden  fair !  how  faithless  is  thy  bosom. 

The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak'st  for  thine  example ! 
So  long  as  summer  laughs,  she  sings, 
But  in  the  autumn  spreads  her  wings. 

The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak'st  for  thine  example ! 

The   meadow   brook,   the    meadow   brook,   is    mirror   of    thy 

falsehood ! 

It  flows  so  long  as  falls  the  rain, 
In  drought  its  springs  soon  dry  again. 

The    meadow   brook,   the   meadow   brook,    is    mirror   of    thy 
falsehood. 


WASHINGTON  CROSSING  THE  ALLEGHANY. 


BY  ANNE  C.  LYNCH. 


MORE  proudly  on  thy  winding  course, 

Dark  Alleghany,  flow ! 
The  noblest  burden  thou  could'st  bear 

Is  on  thy  waters  now. 

But  calm  be  every  turbid  wave, 
And  hushed  be  wind  and  storm, 

There  lies  a  nation's  destiny 
Within  that  gallant  form. 

A  spirit  that  shall  stem  a  tide 
More  deep  and  dark  than  thine ; 

That  on  a  night  of  war  shall  bid 
The  star  of  victory  shine. 

A  spirit  that  through  coming  time 
Shall  bear  a  hallowed  name ; 

The  glory  of  old  conquerors 
Shall  pale  before  his  fame. 

And  young  ambition  on  his  course 

Shall  turn  its  eagle  eye, 
And  men  invoke  his  sainted  shade 

In  threat'ning  anarchy. 

24* 


278  THE    GIFT. 

No  baleful  meteor  shall  he  be, 
To  dazzle  from  afar, 

But  in  the  firmament  of  fame, 
A  fixed,  a  polar  star. 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  DIARY  OF  A  RECLUSE. 


Jan.  1st,  183-.  To-day  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  would  keep 
a  journal.  The  reason  I  have  not  done  so  before  is,  because  I 
have  thought  that,  where  no  events  transpired,  as  here,  and 
where  one's  mind  dwelt  so  uniformly  as  mine  has  done  on  a 
few  general  conclusions  that  have  given  me  the  darkest  views  of 
life,  a  journal  would  be  a  most  monotonous  document.  What 
can  have  led  me  into  such  clouds  of  dark  thoughts?  I  shall  never 
forget  with  what  contempt  I  turned  away  from  B.,  who  told  me 
I  should  outgrow  melancholy.  But  lately  his  words  have  often 
occurred  to  me,  and  I  am  half  inclined  to  believe  that  melancholy 
is  but  another  name  for  ill  health  and  want  of  air  and  exercise. 
Ennobling  thought,  that  all  these  immortal  longings,  these  aspi- 
rations that  neither  earth  nor  heaven  can  satisfy,  '  this  perpetual 
moaning  of  the  soul  for  sympathy,  like  the  sea-shell  for  the 
waters  that  should  fill  it,'  that  these  should  be  the  results  of  a 
fit  of  indigestion  !  No,  it  cannot  be  so.  It  is  the  struggle  of  the 
soul  when  she  feels  for  the  first  time  her  fetters,  as  she  wakes 
from  the  unconsciousness  of  childhood,  bewildered  with  the 
mystery  around  her;  aspiring,  doubting,  despairing,  she  at 
last  falls,  overcome  with  her  own  violence,  and  when  she  rises 
from  the  shock  it  is  with  the  subdued  serenity  of  middle  age. 

I  am  often  inclined  to  laugh  at  the  inverted  notions  of  things 
I  used  to  have,  but  before  a  smile  is  formed  tears  get  the  start  of 
it.  "  Reverence,  oh  young,  the  delusions  of  thy  youth,"  says 
"Schiller.  It  is  traitorous  to  our  own  hearts,  when  we  alone  have 


280  THE    GIFT. 

witnessed  their  agonies  and  known  their  indefinable  desires,  thus 
to  turn  the  world's  evidence,  and  join  in  the  smile  at  their  vain 
aspirations  and  fruitless  struggles,  and  betray  their  weaknesses. 
No,  my  poor  heart !  never  again  will  I  jest  with  thy  delusions  or 
the  tears  it  has  cost  thee  to  part  with  them.  Little  indeed  hast 
thou  found  of  sympathy  or  love  in  the  world,  and  now  that  thou 
wouldst  cast  away  the  mantle  of  the  Ideal  as  unfit  for  the  blasts 
and  frosts  thou  must  encounter,  and  wouldst  gird  on  thy  shrink- 
ing form  the  protecting  armour  of  Philosophy,  though  thou 
totterest  with  its  weight, — I  would  not  bereave  thee  of  thy  last 
stronghold,  the  sympathy  of  thyself. 

2d.  I  quite  like  journalizing.  It  will  be  company  for  me,  and 
this  is  what  I  most  need.  To  be  thus  "  the  cannibal  of  one's  own 
thoughts"  is  horrible.  To  move  among  our  fellow-beings  wrapt 
in  ourselves,  invisible,  scanning  the  actions,  compassing  the  petty 
motives,  too  often  detecting  other  qualities  than  virtue,  this  drives 
us  back  upon  ourselves,  and  teaches  that 

"  There  is  no  bond  that  mocks  at  Fate 
Like  man's  with  his  own  heart." 

Moore  says,  in  his  Life  of  Sheridan,  that  the  knowledge  we 
acquire  in  maturity  and  from  inclination,  in  contradistinction  to 
that  received  through  the  medium  of  the  birch,  has  about  it  a 
freshness  the  latter  can  never  possess.  This  is  my  daily  expe- 
rience. Knowledge  breaks  upon  me  now  like  light  upon  the 
restored  vision  of  the  blind.  I  thank  Fortune  that  I  was  such  a 
paragon  of  idleness  in  my  childhood.  I  am  far  from  being  free 
from  it  yet,  however,  though  it  is  quite  time.  Twenty  years  of 
a  life  is  sufficient  for  hibernation. 

I  am  really  pleased  with  this  new  acquaintance,  myself.  She 
is  more  companionable  than  I  thought  she  would  be,  after  being 
neglected  for  a  lifetime.  Not  that  I  have  had  no  thoughts,  but 
they  were  shadowy  from  not  being  expressed  in  language. 
Why  then  have  I  never  written  before  ?  I  believe  it  is  because 
life  has  seemed  of  too  little  importance  to  record  even  a  feeling 


DIARY    OF    A    RECLUSE.  281 

of  its  weariness.  But  that  state  has  passed  away.  There  is 
sublimity  to  me  now  in  existence  alone.  To  know  that  I  am  a 
part  of  this  infinite,  mysterious  creation, — a  conscious  atom, 
capable  of  beholding  the  beauty  and  immensity  of  the  universe, 
— this  is  indeed  worth  a  life  of  suffering. 

'3d.  It  was  my  intention  in  commencing  this  journal  to  ex- 
press some  of  the  thoughts  that  have  agitated  me  for  the  last  two 
or  three  years.  I  have  never  given  them  utterance  before — 
not  because  my  heart  was  not  aching  to  do  so,  but  because  I 
have  never  met  those  who  cared  what  I  thought,  or  who  would 
understand  me,  perhaps,  if  1  told  them.  Goethe  says  somewhere 
that  he  was  possessed  of  a  surplus  of  sentiment,  and,  as  he  could 
do  nothing  else  until  he  had  disposed  of  that,  he  wrote  Werter. 
And  I  have  an  accumulation  of  egotism  that  I  must  throw  off 
here,  or  I  shall  not  be  able  to  proceed.  The  action  of  mind  is 
always  interesting  to  me,  particularly  when  it  is  under  the  influ- 
ence of  strong  emotions. 

Until  I  was  seventeen  I  was  a  mere  child  in  thought  and 
action.  I  think  it  was  studying  Natural  Philosophy,  (albeit  I 
studied  sparingly,)  that  first  gave  an  impulse  to  my  latent  facul- 
ties. That  was  the  '  deep-felt  ray'  that  loosened  the  avalanche 
of  thought,  which,  rushing  with  rapidity  and  violence  through 
my  devoted  head,  left  despair  and  desolation  in  its  track,  and 
stopped  not  in  its  mad  career  till  it  reached  the  very  outposts  of 
the  universe,  till  it  had  boldly  questioned  time  and  eternity  of 
their  secrets,  and  nature  of  her  Author.  Then  my  mind,  (to 
drop  the  avalanche,)  stood  still,  overwhelmed  with  doubt  and 
confusion :  it  had  flown  beyond  its  natural  atmosphere,  and 
could  not  breathe  the  rarefied  ether  that  surrounded  it ;  like  the 
meteoric  stones  that  by  some  strange  convulsion  are  elevated 
almost  without  the  sphere  of  the  earth's  attraction,  but  yet 
revolve  with  it  until  some  other  change  once  more  precipitates 
them  into  its  bosom,  here  have  I  been  these  three  years  in  this 
unenviable  state  of  betweenity,  till  now,  suddenly  and  by  some 
unknown  cause,  I  find  myself  once  more  on  a  mental  terra 


282  THE    GIFT. 

firma,  and  on  the  whole,  if  no  wiser,  I  think  rather  better,  for  the 
jaunt.  In  this  state  of  feeling  of  which  I  have  been  speaking, 
but  for  a  few  ties,  life  would  have  been  an  intolerable  burden. 
As  it  was,  I  often  deliberated  on  the  question  of  throwing  it  off. 
To  me, 

"  Love,  fame,  ambition,  avarice,  were  the  same ; 
Each  idle,  and  all  ill,  and  none  the  worst, 
For  all  were  meteors  of  a  different  name, 
And  death  the  sable  smoke  where  vanished  the  flame." 

To  trace  the  cause  of  this  state  of  mind, — it  would  seem  to  have 
arisen  from  the  intellect's  being  suddenly  excited  to  action,  and 
then  continuing  to  act  without  any  regulator  to  its  motion,  so  that 
it  was  tossed  about  like  a  boat  without  rudder  or  ballast  on  a 
stormy  ocean.  If  I  had  then  formed  the  habits  of  industry  I  now 
have,  or  had  become  more  interested  in  study  and  society,  I  might 
have  been  spared  much  suffering.  It  is  keeping  aloof  from  the 
bustle  and  conflict  of  life,  and  looking  at  it  through  the  cold 
medium  of  reason,  that  makes  us  chilled  and  indifferent,  as  often 
in  a  ball-room,  I  have  been  an  uninterested  observer,  till  I 
became  at  last  an  excited  actor.  He  is  wrong,  then,  who  calls 
this  indifference  to  life,  and  the  consequent  misery,  in  one  who 
idealizes  rather  than  acts,  the  effect  of  an  over- wrought  imagi- 
nation. It  is  no  fancy,  it  is  indeed  the  truth.  All  is  vanity. 
But  he  errs,  I  admit,  who  dwells  morbidly  on  it.  There  is 
somewhere  in  Bulwer's  *  Asmodeus  at  Large,'  the  story  of  a 
youth  who,  thirsting  for  forbidden  knowledge,  would 

"  Lift  the  painted  veil  that  men  call  life." 

To  escape  from  the  horrible  sights  that  his  newly  acquired 
power  reveals  to  him,  he  flies  to  his  mistress,  but  as  he  ap- 
proaches her  he  discovers  '  no  whole  but  a  million  of  lives  loath- 
some and  awful.'  It  had  such  an  effect  on  me  when  I  read  it, 
that  I  cannot  think  of  it  now  without  a  shudder. 

The  external  world  is  beautiful.     Turn  which  way  we  will,  to 


DIARY    OF    A    RECLUSE.  283 

the  heavens,  the  sea,  the  earth,  we  are  *  dazzled  and  drunk  with 
beauty ;'  to  the  graceful  forms  of  animals,  and  our  wonder  is 
lost  in  admiration ;  to  our  own  species,  to  the  soul-lit  eye,  the 
blushing  cheek,  and  the  intellectual  brow,  and  our  delight  is 
deepened  into  love.  Life  itself  is  a  pleasure — the  power  of 
motion  in  the  invisible  supporting  air,  and  the  thousand  exqui- 
site sensations  we  are  so  delicately  constituted  as  to  receive 
every  moment,  are  in  themselves  sufficient  to  make  existence 
almost  rapturous ;  but  wo  to  him  who  would  penetrate  those 
regions  of  darkness  and  doubt  that  lie  beyond  the  natural  boun- 
daries of  his  mental  vision.  He  is  like  that  lover  who,  not 
satisfied  that  the  cheek  of  his  mistress  blushes  for  him,  would 
decompose  it  to  its  frightful  elements,  till,  horror-stricken,  he 
turns  from  the  hideous  sight.  I  have  not  then  been  acting  or 
thinking  falsely,  but  only  foolishly.  Henceforth,  since  there  is  a 
bright  side  to  human  life,  let  me  keep  my  eyes  steadily  fixed  on 
that,  and,  if  possible,  be  blind  to  all  else.  With  this  page  let 
there  be  an  end  to  all  horrors. 

5th.  Just  finished  Latrobe's  Travels  in  North  America.  He 
says,  "  No  man  can  pass  over  it,  from  east  to  west,  from  north 
to  south,  without  bringing  away  the  impression,  that  if  on  any 
part  of  his  earthly  creation  the  finger  of  God  has  drawn  charac- 
ters that  would  seem  to  indicate  the  seat  of  empire,  surely  it  is 
there."  The  desire  to  travel  has  been  a  passion  with  me  for 
years.  If  the  body  is  always  confined,  the  mind  must  remain 
so  in  some  degree,  despite  reading  and  thinking.  It  convinces 
us  that  we  are  not  indeed  the  centre  of  the  world,  and  that  the 
sun  shines  on  other  lands  and  other  races.  Once,  my  ideas  of 
the  delights  of  travelling  were  more  highly  wrought,  as  my 
knowledge  was  more  limited,  but  knowing  the  facts  instead  of 
the  poetry  has  not  diminished  the  desire. 

It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  our  country  presented  a 
noble  field  for  a  national  poet.  The  elements  of  poetry  are 
here,  and  want  but  the  master  hand  to  combine  them.  These 
elements  are,  its  immense  extent,  its  varieties  of  climate  and 


284  THE    GIFT. 

scenery,  its  noble  rivers,  its  boundless  prairies,  its  primeval 
forests,  its  aborigines,  the  sudden  dawning  of  the  continent  like  a 
radiant  vision  on  the  eyes  of  the  Old  World,  and  lastly,  its  pre- 
sent government  and  the  glorious  revolution  that  established  it. 

7th.  Just  read  the  Court  and  Camp  of  Bonaparte,  and  I  half 
regret  it,  for  the  writer  with  his  faint  praise  has  succeeded  in 
belittling  Napoleon,  in  my  eyes  at  least,  much  more  effectually 
than  Scott,  whose  prejudice  is  so  apparent,  that  one  sees  at  once 
that  for  him  nothing  good  could  come  out  of  France.  This  other 
writer,  instead  of  dazzling  us  with  glimpses  of  his  comet-like 
career,  gives  us  petty  details  that  destroy  the  whole  effect.  The 
reading  of  it  is  like  going  behind  the  curtains  at  one  of  those 
dioramas,  which  are  very  beautiful  if  seen  in  the  proper  distance 
and  light. 

"  Of  all  that  flattered,  followed,  sought,  and  sued,"  how  few 
adhered  to  the  Emperor  in  his  fall !  What  a  bitter  disappoint- 
ment to  a  young  and  generous  nature  to  find  that  the  world  is 
indeed  made  of  such  materials.  I  used  to  have  a  sort  of  poetic 
creed  that  it  was  selfish,  cold,  and  ungrateful,  but  at  the  same 
time  there  was  a  latent  hope  that  it  might  be  poetry  after  all.  It 
remained  for  experience,  corroborated  by  history,  to  demonstrate 
its  sad  reality. 

8th.  To-day  I  read  a  book  of  travels,  a  poor  thing  enough, 
but  interesting  to  me,  as  it  describes 

"  The  scenes  my  earliest  dreams  have  dwelt  upon." 

Can  it  be  that  my  presentiments  will  never  be  realized,  and  that 
I  shall  die  without  seeing  those  lands,  when  I  have  envied  even 
the  waves  that  kiss  their  sunny  shores  1 

The  author  seems  to  belong  to  that  class  of  persons  who  are 
neither  poets  nor  men  of  common  sense.  Poets  often  lack 
common  sense,  or  rather,  see  every  thing  through  a  poetic 
haze,  and  nothing  with  vulgar  eyes.  For  instance,  Lamartine, 


DIARY    OF    A    RECLUSE.  285 

in  his  Pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Land,  while  our  own  countryman 
was  disputing  with  his  guide  about  the  bucksheesh,  belabouring 
his  donkey,  or  amusing  himself  with  his  servant  Paul's  persona- 
tion of  the  disciple  at  Jerusalem,  he  was  weeping  in  holy  rap- 
tures, prostrated  before  the  sacred  relics.  Lamartine  was  a  poet 
without  common  sense — Stephens  a  man  of  common  sense,  with- 
out a  spark  of  poetry.  Both  are  delightful  in  this  case ;  but  I 
like  best  those  characters  which  unite  these  qualities,  and  where 
they  are  united  the  best  poets  are  produced — that  is,  poets  who 
delight  all — and  Goethe  says  "  The  poet  deserves  not  the  name 
when  he  only  speaks  out  those  few  feelings  that  are  his  as  an 
individual.  Only  when  he  can  appropriate  and  tell  the  story  of 
the  world  is  he  a  poet."  None  but  the  most  poetical  minds  read 
Shelley,  while  the  most  ordinary  appreciate  Byron.  But  I  am 
getting  into  difficulty,  for  I  really  think  Shelley  the  greater  poet 
of  the  two — so  I  must  think  it  over  again. 

To-day  I  have  been  so  lonely !  This  loneliness  I  generally 
contrive  to  keep  at  bay  by  intense  occupation  of  some  kind — yet 
there  are  times  when  this  fails,  and  books  offer  no  consolation — 
when  I  want  a  living,  breathing,  sympathizing  friend.  But 
Mashallah !  as  the  Turks  say,  I  am  fast  reading  "  Constanti- 
nople and  its  Environs."  As  long  as  I  do  not  travel,  I  have  a 
strong  desire  ungratified,  and  this  has  something  to  do  in  pro- 
ducing happiness,  I  think.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that 
perfect  happiness  and  perfect  misery  were  nearly  allied,  because 
both  states  are  hopeless.  I  remember  reading  a  story  of  two 
lovers  who  died  of  being  perfectly  happy — and  paradoxical  as 
it  seems,  I  fully  believe  such  a  thing  might  happen. 

12th.  The  last  volume  of  Smollett's  continuation  of  Hume  I 
finished  last  night.  Thank  heaven,  it  is  read  through.  It  ap- 
pears to  me  that  Hume  is  overrated.  Though  his  history  is 
good  as  a  reference,  and  it  may  be  a  duty  to  read  it,  it  is  hardly 
a  pleasure.  He  could  not  easily  be  more  uninteresting. 

I4.th.     Read  Burr's  Memoirs.     I  recollect  a  little  incident  Mr. 

25 


286  THE    GIFT. 

T told  me  of  him.     At  some  place  where  he  visited  there 

was  a  pretty  child,  of  which  he  was  very  fond  and  often  brought 
it  presents.  Caressing  it  one  day  the  child  playfully  put  her 

hand  in  Burr's  pocket.     Mr.  T said  he  should  never  forget 

the  look  of  scorn  with  which  he  cast  the  little  girl  from  him — he 
never  spoke  to  her  again.  Whatever  may  have  been  his  faults, 
it  is  melancholy  to  see  an  old  man  like  him  walking  among  his 
fellow-men  scorning  and  scorned.  I  have  a  fellow-feeling  with 
misanthropes ;  that  is,  I  can  understand  how  a  noble  nature 
should  turn  from  the  mass  of  its  fellow-creatures  too  often  with 
pity  or  contempt,  it  should  be  pity,  pity  for  their  selfishness  and 
petty  malice — their  stupidity,  living  in  such  a  world  of  wonders, 
where  every  pebble  and  every  blade  of  grass  is  a  miracle  and  a 
mystery,  yet  living  and  dying  with  scarcely  a  thought  above 
the  sod  that  at  length  covers  their  dust.  Yet,  were  we  made  to 
soar  ?  May  not  genius  be  a  disease  ?  Oh  dear !  it  is  dull  talking 
to  one's  self — one  wants  contradiction  sometimes. 

2Qth.     Since  I  wrote  here  last,  I  have  stood  by  the  dying  bed 

and  followed  to  her  narrow  home  my  friend  C .   Oh  heaven ! 

what  a  scene !  to  see  the  dread  conqueror  clasp  in  his  embrace 
the  form  we  have  often  caressed,  and  the  cold  damp  earth  heaped 
over  the  bosom  that  cherished  high  aspirations  and  warm  affec- 
tions !  To-night  I  have  been  to  the  grave.  One  week  since  I 
spoke  to  her,  I  held  her  hand,  I  kissed  the  cheek  that  daylight 
may  never  more  look  upon. 

"  Answer  me,  burning  stars  of  night, 
Where  is  the  spirit  gone  ?" 

How  strange,  that  though  I  have  often  thought  of  death,  and 
even  meditated  hastening  it,  I  never  till  now  knew  the  weight  of 
mortality  !  Hereafter,  let  me  live  with  the  last  hour  before  me. 
I  have  not  loved  my  friends  enough,  I  have  been  exacting  of 
their  love,  and  avaricious  of  my  own.  How  mad,  how  insen- 
sible I  have  been !  I  see  myself  in  a  new  light, — an  intellectual 
and  moral  being,  by  a  mysterious  destiny  brought  into  existence, 


DIARY    OF    A    RECLUSE.  287 

borne  irresistibly  along  towards  a  gulf,  which  I  cannot  fathom, 
and  over  whose  depths  hang  clouds  dark  and  impenetrable. 
Every  moment  hurries  me  along,  and  yet  I  ask  not,  I  think  not, 
I  know  not,  to  what. 

21  st.  l  The  moon  is  beaming  silver  bright,'  the  stars  are 
looking  down  with  a  melancholy  gaze ;  I  have  looked  on  them 
a  moment  since  :  they  are  the  very  same  that  inspired  the  fan- 
tasies of  Plato  and  Pythagoras.  There  they  shine  with  their 
pale,  sad  light,  and  Plato  and  Pythagoras  are  gone,  and  gene- 
rations have  vanished  like  the  waves  that  have  broken  on 
the  sea-shore.  Myriads  of  eyes  have  looked  on  them,  myriads 
of  beings  like  myself  have  '  lived,  loved,  and  died,'  yet  they 
are  not  changed.  I  look  upon  them  to-night — a  few  more 
years  and  I  shall  see  them  not,  but  still  they  will  shine  on. 
What  is  humanity  amidst  such  a  universe,  and  what  am  1 1  The 
very  trees  under  my  window  have  lived  longer  than  I  can  live, 
— my  life,  the  very  breath  of  heaven  can  destroy  it.  Races  and 
generations  are  nothing;  the  mighty  machine  rolls  on  and 
sweeps  them  away.  Father  of  light  and  life !  thou  alone 
knowest  the  conflicting  thoughts  that  agitate  my  soul ;  give  me 
a  right  spirit,  and  guide  me  in  the  way  of  truth  ;  thou  only 
canst  know  my  desire  for  it.  Make  me  submissive  to  thy  de- 
crees, and  prepare  me  for  whatever  fate  awaits  me  hereafter. 

23d.  This  has  been  a  wretched  day  to  me.  I  have  had 
another  of  those  paroxysms  of  tears  that  I  vainly  thought  had 
ceased  for  ever.  I  thought  their  fountains  were  dry.  Struggle 
on,  brave  spirit!  thou  dost  buffet  the  billows  right  bravely. 
Storms  of  wild  thoughts  have  rushed  over  thee ;  thou  hast  fed 
on  the  gall  and  wormwood  of  existence ;  *  thou  hast  made  idols 
and  hast  found  them  clay ;'  thou  hast  looked  over  the  broad 
universe  for  one  spot  where  thou  mightest  repose,  but  in  vain — 
all  is  inhospitable,  dark,  and  forbidding — back  thou  comest  to 
thyself,  weary,  but  finding  no  rest,  yet  thou  dost  struggle  on ; — 
courage,  good  heart !  thy  pilgrimage  shall  soon  be  over,  and 


288  THE    GIFT. 

though  no  beam  of  brightness  breaks  through  the  gloom  of  the  fu- 
ture, yet  on  the  mercy  of  thy  Creator  thou  mayest  calmly  repose. 


This  has  been  a  day  of  continued  occupation,  and  all 
the  thinking  that  I  have  done  has  been  to  wonder  that  I  could 
possibly  feel  so  wretchedly  as  I  did  yesterday.  My  occupation 
has  been  nothing  less  than  overturning  the  garret  and  restoring 
it  to  order  !  As  garrets  and  poets  are  often  connected,  perhaps 
there  is  something  inspiring  in  the  air  of  one.  I  feel  so  well  I 
am  ashamed.  I  have  no  more  sympathy  with  what  is  written 
on  my  last  page  than  a  child.  I  have  but  one  feeling,  that  of 
perfect  health,  with  the  liveliness  that  always  gives  me.  There 
is  an  animal  for  you  !  I  wonder  how  every  one  can  look  so 
doleful  and  mope  about  so,  —  and  yesterday  I  was  on  the  bed 
crying  my  eyes  out  half  the  day,  in  the  most  hopeless  melan- 
choly and  despair.  All  this  for  breathing  the  air  of  the  garret  ! 
But  I  shall  have  another  day  of  rapture  to-morrow,  gathering 
paper,  rags,  emptying  old  bandboxes,  and  packing  bundles. 
After  that  I  suppose  I  shall  sink  again  to  the  level  of  the  second 
story  and  the  companionship  of  musty  books. 

28th.  Finished  Guizot's  History  of  Civilization  in  Europe,  a 
clear  and  concise  view  of  its  progress,  speaking  of  which  he 
says,  "  Thus  man  advances  in  the  execution  of  a  plan  which  he 
has  not  conceived,  of  which  he  is  not  aware,  and  comprehends 
by  its  results  alone.  Conceive  a  great  machine,  the  design  of 
which  is  centered  in  a  single  individual,  though  its  various  parts 
are  entrusted  to  different  workmen,  strangers,  and  separated 
from  each  other;  none  of  these  understand  the  work  as  a 
whole,  which  he  concurs  in  producing  :  and  thus  by  the  hand  of 
man  are  the  designs  of  Providence  wrought  out  in  the  govern- 
ment of  the  world."  Thus  it  has  often  appeared  to  me  that  we 
are  the  instruments  of  some  great  and  unknown  end.  But  I 
forbear  to  speculate. 

I  have  been  quite  ill  to-day  from  a  blow  received  on  my  head 
yesterday  on  being  unceremoniously  thrown  out  of  a  sleigh  and 


DIARY    OF    A    RECLUSE.  289 

dashed  against  a  fence,  and  but  for  my  quilted  bonnet,  that 
honoured  member  (my  head)  would  have  lost  all  sensibility  to 
pains  and  aches.  As  I  was  riding  home  I  amused  myself  with 
thinking  how  little  force  was  wanting  to  have  quieted  me  for 
ever.  Then  I  should  have  been  unconscious.  There  would 
have  been  the  same  bustle,  the  preparing  of  coffin  and  shroud 
that  there  was  here  a  few  days  since ;  they  would  have  buried 
me,  canvassed  my  merits  and  failings,  wept  a  little,  and  there  it 
would  have  ended.  In  the  hearts  of  a  few  the  shock  would  be 
great  and  lasting ;  but  I  have  been  so  long  separated  from  all  I 
love  that  even  were  I  to  die,  I  should  be  scarcely  a  loss  to  them. 
Oh  this  waste  of  the  affections !  this  hoarding  of  them  up  as  the 
miser  does  his  treasures,  till  they  rot  and  rust !  it  is  death — it  is 
worse  than  death  !  To  live  in  such  a  desert  as  this  I  must  be 
made  of  '  sterner  stuff  than  many.  I  do  not  forget  my  books ; 
they  indeed  are  all  my  consolation ;  but  they  are  like  the  sun  in 
this  wintry  day — it  shines,  it  lights  up  the  earth  with  a  thousand 
beautiful  hues,  but  it  is  distant,  it  is  cold.  It  warms  not,  though 
it  gives  us  light.  How  often  my  heart  aches  for  a  kind  word,  an 
approving  smile,  from  some  one  who  loves  me.  But,  perhaps, 
this  is  weakness. 

Feb.  1st.  Read  Mary  of  Burgundy.  The  Lord  of  Hannut 
says,  "  Hidden  within  the  bosom  of  this  mortal  clay  is  some  fine 
essence,  participating  in  the  affections  of  the  earthly  thing  it 
inhabits,  but  thirsting  for  knowledge  beyond  this  world,  and 
yearning  for  joys  more  pure  and  love  more  imperishable  than 
the  joy  and  love  of  this  world  can  ever  be." 

I  regret  that  I  do  not  write  here  every  day.  When  I  think  of 
all  the  thoughts  that  have  passed  over  my  mind  like  shadows 
across  a  mirror,  and  left  as  little  trace,  it  is  always  with  a  feeling 
of  regret,  and  yet  why  should  that  be  cause  for  regret  more  than 
that  the  beautiful  clouds  will  disappear,  and  the  flowers  and 
leaves  1  A  beautiful  thought  is  not  more  beautiful  than  a  flower, 
yet  we  see  myriads  of  them  die  without  leaving  a  trace  of  their 

25* 


290  THE    GIFT. 

existence,  and  never  sigh  for  them, — why  should  we  for  lost 
thoughts  ? 

3d.  I  determined  to  write  a  page  here,  good  or  bad,  every 
night,  but  last  night  I  had  no  fire,  and  to-night  I  have  no  ideas. 

I  said  to  B to-day  in  my  letter,  that  some  years  ago 

my  imagination  took  the  reins  of  my  mind,  and  drove  off 
after*  the  manner  of  Phaeton,  leaving  the  other  faculties  to 
come  up  at  their  lagging  pace.  Thinking  of  it  again,  I  am 
sure  it  is  so. 

Poor  C ,  how  soon  I  have  forgotten  her !  I  have  often 

asked  myself  if  I  were  willing  to  be  as  lightly  thought  of.  I 
answer,  yes.  While  I  live  I  am  avaricious  of  every  breath  of 
affection  and  love  my  friends  can  bestow,  but  after  I  have  ceased 
to  be  conscious  in  the  oblivion  of  the  grave,  or  have  passed  into 
a  higher  and  holier  state,  why  should  I  demand  the  tears  and 
vain  regrets  of  those  who  loved  me  here  ?  If  there  were  still 
enjoyments  in  the  world,  why  should  I  have  their  thoughts 
coffined  with  me  ? 

But  would  I  be  forgotten  ?  Oh  no  !  I  would  have  my  memory 
recalled  like  a  strain  of  remembered  music,  like  a  pleasant  land- 
scape or  a  sunset,  causing  no  sorrow  when  they  disappear. 

Hitherto  I  have  always  been  unable  to  comprehend  the  desire 
expressed  so  often  and  by  so  many,  for  posthumous  fame ;  but 
to-day  as  I  sat  reading,  the  idea  of  my  thoughts  living  in  the 
minds  of  thousands  when  I  existed  no  longer  came  across  me 
with  an  emotion  of  sublimity  I  have  rarely  felt.  This  power  to 
reach  down,  if  I  may  say  so,  and  connect  one's  self  with  the 
remotest  posterity,  is  indeed  a  glorious  immortality. 

I  am  quite  horrified  to  think  how  little  I  improve  the  time. 
Strange,  that  when  these  few  flitting  years  are  all  that  we  pos- 
sess, we  squander  them  in  such  idle  pursuits,  with  a  world  of 
science,  art,  and  beauty  before  us  to  be  explored !  Would  I 
could  always  remember  that  the  moments  are  flying  like  arrows, 
and  worlds  cannot  redeem  one  of  them — that  he  is  unworthy  of 


DIARY    OF    A    RECLUSE.  291 

life  who  has  lived  and  made  the  world  no  better,  and  set  fainting 
virtue  no  bright  example. 

6th.  I  often  find  that  when  I  begin  to  express  my  thoughts 
they  are  quite  new  to  me,  or,  before  they  are  clothed  in  lan- 
guage, I  cannot  distinguish  them.  I  suppose  it  is  because  I  have 
never  written  them  (before  now)  and  for  the  last  year  or  two 
have  not  spoken  them  at  all.  My  mind  will  collect  materials, 
but  it  shrinks  from  the  labour  of  putting  them  together — it  will 
form  the  cocoons,  but  it  does  not  like  to  spin  and  weave  them 
into  fabrics. 

Read  Attila.  I  like  the  character  of  Ildica.  After  the  scenes 
of  terror  she  passed  through,  the  voice  of  her  lover  had  no  music 
for  her,  and  she  retired  to  the  solitude  of  a  convent,  though  no 
obstacle  prevented  her  union.  I  can  conceive  it.  When  the 
events  of  our  lives  call  out  an  unnatural  energy,  the  moment  we 
become  conscious  of  a  superhuman  power  to  meet  and  battle 
with  our  fate,  that  moment  life  assumes  a  new  aspect.  Gifted 
with  a  strange  power,  breathing  in  a  rarer  spirit,  we  are  forced 
against  our  wills  above  the  passions  and  feelings  whose  slaves 
we  once  were,  and  doomed  from  our  elevation  to  behold  them 
diminish  in  magnitude  and  lustre.  Alas  for  that  elevation ! 
Alas  for  that  human  heart ! 

It  is  dreadful  to  think  how  I  have  wasted  all  my  life.  The 
next  three  months  I  mean  to  improve  vigorously.  The  mind  is 
acted  on  by  laws  like  matter,  and  the  more  resistance  we  over- 
come the  more  we  have  the  power  of  overcoming.  If  I  were  to 
measure  the  momentum  of  my  mind,  however,  by  the  force  re- 
quired to  put  it  in  motion,  it  would  be  tremendous.  It  is  idle  to 
regret  the  past ;  the  future  I  can  control.  But  am  I  quite  sure  of 
that  ?  How  do  I  know  that  we  are  not  made  for  a  certain  des- 
tiny, as  a  watch  to  strike  so  often  1  How  this  question  of  destiny 
haunts  me !  It  is  better  to  act  than  to  speculate,  however.  I 
laugh  outright  often  at  the  stupid  wonder  that  overcomes  me 
when  I  begin  to  think — but  I  oftener  cry. 

Commenced  the  History  of  Rome.     What  a  divine  power  is 


292  THE    GIFT. 

this  of  acquiring  knowledge!  Though  I  often  ask  myself, 
"  What  from  this  barren  being  do  we  reap  ?" — surely  it  is  not 
so  barren. 

We  should  be  thankful  for  the  boon  of  existence,  had  we  but 
this  one  faculty  of  acquiring  knowledge,  that  is,  as  I  happen  to 
feel  just  now.  Add  to  this  the  countless  pleasures  of  eye  and 
ear — of  the  affections  and  the  senses — and  who  shall  say  he  is 
miserable  ?  What  a  beautiful  bond  of  union  is  mind  !  How  it 
carries  us  back  and  unites  us  with  the  great  spirits  of  the  past ! 
Ages  have  trodden  down  their  graves,  worms  have  eaten  their 
very  dust ;  yet  their  thoughts  live.  Ethereal  and  imperishable, 
they  float  down  the  awful  current  of  time  while  empires  and  men 
are  swallowed  in  its  mysterious  depths.  And  I,  but  a  bubble  on 
this  mighty  ocean,  I  can  comprehend  these  thoughts,  can  sym- 
pathize and  unite  my  own  with  them,  can  make  them  a  part  of 
me,  and  feel  that  they  at  least  will  be  immortal. 

8th.  I  have  always  delighted  in  that  story  of  Bulwer's  in  the 
'  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine,'  called  the  *  Life  of  Dreams,'  where  a 
young  German  student  succeeds  in  continuing  a  dream  night 
after  night,  till  at  length  it  becomes  the  reality,  and  real  life  the 
dreaming  state.  Why,  since  the  beings  of  the  actual  world  are 
such,  should  we  not  betroth  to  ourselves  the  beings  of  the  mind  1 
Speak  to  them,  they  answer  in  our  own  tongue  ;  love  them,  and 
the  glowing  page  tells  us  eloquently  that  they  would  have  loved 
us.  Is  love  a  dream  or  a  reality?  Once  I  believed  in  love, 
how  devoutly !  But  was  not  this  love  of  the  imagination  ?  I 
think  it  was.  Yet  it  is  the  highest  feeling  of  which  our  nature 
is  capable.  I  say  it  is  the  love  of  the  imagination,  yet  I  know 
not  that.  We  call  it  so,  perhaps,  because  lovers  are  not  often 
under  its  influence  for  a  long  time.  They  seem  to  discover  that 
they  have  loved  an  ideal  instead  of  a  reality,  and  then  they 
graduate  their  love  accordingly.  This  every  day's  experience 
proves,  but  it  does  not,  after  all,  disprove  the  existence  of  love. 
How  much  I  have  dreamed  of  love  when  I  was  younger  and 
more  poetical  than  I  am  now  !  I  have  looked  on  the  dew-drops 


DIARY    OF    A    RECLUSE.  293 

and  seen  them  by  some  strange  sympathy  draw  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  mingle  into  one; — I  have  seen  floating  blocks  of 
inanimate  matter,  without  any  apparent  cause,  advance  till  they 
united ;  I  have  heard  the  strings  of  a  guitar,  when  you  spoke 
on  the  key  to  which  it  was  attuned,  thrill  back  a  corresponding 
tone  ;  I  have  watched  the  electric  cloud  whirling  through  space, 
stormy  and  dark,  giving  no  brightness  and  uttering  no  voice  till 
it  met  its  sister  cloud ;  and  I  turned  in  bitterness  of  soul  to  ask 
myself  if  amid  all  these  sympathies  of  nature  the  human  heart 
only  was  doomed  to  wander  on  in  its  pilgrimage,  desolate  and 
alone.  And  is  it  indeed  so?  Are  all  these  aspirations  and 
desires  to  be  mocked  by  the  seeming  of  love,  as  the  mirage  of 
the  desert  mocks  the  thirsty  traveller  with  green  spots  and 
flowing  streams  ?  I  have  struggled  against  this  conviction,  but 
I  feel  that  this  love  is  too  elevated  for  humanity.  We  may 
desire,  but  we  cannot  attain  it.  Earliest,  brightest,  and  last  of 
my  delusions,  I  resign  thee.  I  turn  from  thee  as  from  a  guiding 
star:  pale,  steady,  and  bright,  thou  hast  beamed  on  my  dark 
horizon,  and  now  thou  settest  for  ever.  As  the  idolater,  knowing 
not  the  true  God,  lavishes  his  adoration  on  some  object  of  his 
own  creation,  and  invests  it  with  the  attributes  of  the  Deity, 
Spirit  of  Love !  even  so  have  I  worshipped  thee.  I  have  wor- 
shipped thee,  and  thou  art  but  a  phantom  of  my  own  mind.  I 
renounce  my  idolatry.  Sweet,  radiant  dream !  throwing  over 
life  an  ideal  drapery,  thou  comest  no  more  to  me ;  the  touch  of 
reason  has  broken  the  spell  that  bound  thee  to  me,  and  now  thou 
departest  for  ever. 

March  9th.  I  am  delighted  with  Gibbon.  Though  I  have 
such  a  grand  plan  marked  out  for  study,  I  cannot  follow  it  up 
with  half  the  perseverance  I  wish.  Can  I  not  throw  off  this 
torpor  by  exertion,  as  travellers  keep  awake  in  frozen  regions, 
where  to  sleep  is  not  to  wake  again?  In  this  case  sleep  is 
death  also.  For  what  is  it  to  live  without  the  exercise  of  our 
powers,  like  toads  that  lie  buried  for  years  in  rocks  ?  I  choose  to 


294  THE    GIFT. 

come  out,  if  it  is  only  like  the  toad,  to  hop  round  a  little,  and 
take  the  air. 

Spring  has  come  again  with  her  warm  south  winds,  her 
loosened  waters,  and  melting  snows.  What  a  perpetual  miracle 
is  this  change  of  seasons  !  How  they  roll  on  and  bear  me  with 
them !  For  some  weeks  I  have  not  thought  of  death.  Would  it 
not  be  well  to  set  apart  a  few  minutes  every  day  to  reflect  on  it. 

llth.  With  such  a  delightful  course  of  study  before  me  how 
can  I  weary  as  I  do  ?  It  must  be  that  I  have  no  natural  fond- 
ness for  it,  but  have  been  driven  to  it  by  circumstances.  I  have 
long  known  that  I  must  not  place  my  hopes  of  happiness  in 
others.  Death  follows  in  the  rear  of  the  unfaithful  and  snatches 
up  the  few  that  remain  to  us.  And  how  melancholy  a  thing  is 
this  change !  There  has  been  a  friend  that  we  loved,  with 
whose  heart  our  own  accorded,  and  like  well-tuned  instruments 
they  gave  not  a  discordant  note.  We  part — years  intervene — 
we  meet  again,  but  oh  !  with  what  sinking  of  heart,  to  find  that 
we  are  strangers !  Different  scenes  and  thoughts  have  turned 
the  currents  that  ran  so  smoothly  together,  and  they  mingle 
no  longer.  That  is  a  bitter  and  melancholy  hour,  more  bitter 
and  melancholy  than  death  itself,  for  if  death  takes  those  we 
love,  their  memory  remains  fresh  and  beautiful,  and  on  that  we 
can  repose.  But  the  estranged,  the  cold,  the  changed !  it  were 
well  if  we  could  blot  out  their  memory.  As  I  was  saying,  then, 
our  friends  die  and  change,  we  ourselves  grow  old,  and  as  the 
vigour  of  our  youth  decays,  and  the  flowers  of  our  spring  wither, 
some  objects  must  supply  their  place  ;  and  where  shall  we  find 
them  if  not  in  our  own  minds'?  and  what  shall  these  objects  be  if 
not  the  cultivation  of  taste  and  the  acquisition  of  knowledge? 
These  make  us  independent  of  time  and  place.  Like  the  camel 
in  the  parched  desert,  we  bear  within  us  the  fountain  to  supply 
the  wants  of  our  solitary  pilgrimage.  Thus  refreshed  and  in- 
vigorated, we  patiently  travel  on,  while  those  around  us  languish 
beneath  the  storm,  or  die  of  the  feverish  thirst.  One  might  ask, 


DIARY    OF    A    RECLUSE.  295 

"  Will  not  this  course  make  you  selfish,  by  putting  you  above 
the  necessity  of  sympathy  ?"  No,  not  more  than  is  necessary. 
Why,  when  we  find  nothing  to  lean  upon,  should  we  not  support 
ourselves?  I  have  been  too  dependent.  Like  the  harp  that 
responds  to  every  breeze,  so  has  my  inmost  soul  vibrated  to 
every  adverse  breath  of  unkindness,  injustice,  and  change.  Is 
it  not  time  then  that  the  instrument  were  new-strung,  and  the 
chords  made  of  sterner  stuff?  Since  the  midsummer  of  my  life 
is  departing,  let  it  bear  with  it  like  the  summer  of  earth  its 
perishing  flowers.  Bright,  beautiful  aspirations  of  my  youth! 
yearnings  for  that  love  a  God  only  can  satisfy,  for  that  sym- 
pathy that  earth  will  never  give !  *  radiant  and  white-robed 
dreams !'  ye  leave  me  now  for  ever.  Go  with  the  youth  that 
cherished  you  and  the  tears  that  flowed  at  your  coming. 

I2tk.  I  find  myself  even  now  with  all  my  improvements 
often  debating  whether  this  mortal  coil  is  in  truth  a  desirable 
appendage.  A  sudden  weariness  of  life  comes  over  me  and, 

"  I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  a  life  of  care." 

But  I  know  this  is  wrong.  I  know  that  it  is  better  to  live.  We 
are  endowed  with  beautiful  sympathies  and  divine  faculties  :  we 
can  love  and  pity ;  we  can  think  and  imagine,  and  paint  those 
imaginings  in  words  and  colours  ;  we  can  perceive  the  harmony 
and  beauty  of  the  world  about  us :  and  is  not  this  worth  living 
for  ?  And  on  the  arch  that  history  builds  over  the  gulf  of  the  past, 
we  can  wander  back  to  remote  antiquity,  and  trace  the  nations 
of  our  kind  while  they  sleep  under  the  weight  of  centuries. 
'  What  are  our  wars  and  sufferance  ?'  What  if  the  world  is 
unkind,  our  friends  indifferent,  and  our  affections  water  but  the 
desert?  Nature  is  true.  In  the  calmness  of  the  sunshine,  the 
terror  of  the  storm,  in  the  beauty  of  the  insect  and  the  flower,  in 
the  mysteries  of  the  stars,  and  in  the  action  of  her  unchanging 
laws,  does  she  not  alike  reveal  herself  beautiful  to  our  gaze  and 
worthy  of  our  contemplation  ?  Then  come  those  *  beings  of  the 


296  THE    GIFT. 

mind'  that  people  the  visions  of  the  poet,  and  minister  to  those 
finer  wants  of  our  nature  that  reality  overlooks.  Then  there  is 
the  power  of  doing  good  to  those  around  us.  With  such  objects 
before  you  will  you  call  life  a  burden,  when  a  few  brief  years 
at  most  will  deprive  you  of  it  ?  Let  me  then  turn  aside  this 
morbid  sensibility,  and  pass  at  once  from  the  dreaming  and 
sentimental  girl  to  the  active,  resolute,  and  high-souled  woman, 
chastened  and  subdued  by  thought  and  adversity. 

To-day  I  finished  the  reign  of  Diocletian.  Is  it  not  strange 
that  history  presents  but  two  instances,  that  I  recollect,  of  men 
wearied  with  the  glitter  of  a  throne,  voluntarily  descending  from 
their  elevation !  When  Maximian  remonstrated,  Diocletian  re- 
plied, "You  would  not  wonder  if  you  could  see  my  cabbages 
grow." 

Is  it  not  a  proof  that  we  are  low  in  the  scale  of  being,  this  fact 
that  any  thing  like  greatness  of  mind,  nobility,  or  generosity, 
strikes  us  as  something  so  strange?  The  world  gazes  in  as 
much  astonishment  to  see  a  man  perform  a  really  generous 
action,  as  if  he  had  suddenly  mounted  in  the  air  on  wings.  It 
must  be  a  low  state  of  existence  when  the  beautiful,  the  holy, 
and  the  elevated,  excite  such  emotions  of  novelty,  rather  than 
that  which  is  base,  cowardly,  and  low.  The  latter  surround  us 
like  the  air  we  breathe.  Show  us  the  contrary,  and  we  wonder 
and  praise ; — praise  a  good  action  ! — praise  virtue ! — praise  a 
man  because  he  has  done  just  as  he  should  do ! 

13th.     A  lost  day. 

I4:th.  Almost  as  bad.  I  fail  to  keep  constantly  before  my 
mind  the  idea  of  the  shortness  of  life,  and  the  certainty  that  I 
must  die.  How  every  disappointment  and  petty  vexation  is 
swallowed  up  in  that  awful  truth  !  What  a  panacea  for  all  ills ! 
How  cheerful,  how  happy  I  am  after  thinking  of  it !  It  gives 
my  thoughts  a  freedom  they  never  had  before,  and  my  mind  a 
calm  and  delightful  elevation.  I  say  it  does  this  when  I  think 
of  it,  and  I  was  just  wondering  why  it  is  so  little  in  my  thoughts. 


DIARY    OF    A    RECLUSE.  297 

Perhaps  the  reason  is  that  it  is  unnatural  to  one  of  my  years  and 
temperament.  Hitherto  I  have  rebelled, — now  I  submit.  Since 
life  was  so  fair  I  was  disappointed  that  it  was  not  paradise.  I 
have  overlooked  the  actual  good,  and  clamoured  for  the  ima- 
ginary. 

15th.  Despite  philosophy  and  every  thing  else,  there  have 
been  two  or  three  hours  to-day  when  life  was  almost  insup- 
portable. Suddenly  the  fit  passed  off,  and  left  me  as  light- 
hearted  as  it  found  me.  How  many  thousand  times  has  this 
sickness  come  over  me,  and  I  have  wept  till  my  tears  were 
exhausted  !  It  is  a  strange  state  this  abandonment  of  despair ! 
Friends,  foes,  art,  nature,  the  beautiful,  the  deformed,  all  dis- 
appear in  the  blackness  that  enshrouds  me.  Indifference  to  life, 
death,  heaven,  and  hell  takes  the  place  of  my  warm  affections 
and  lively  perceptions.  Formerly  I  felt  this  often,  but  of  late 
more  rarely.  As  I  have  said  before,  it  is  not  imagination  but 
truth  that  produces  this  effect,  and  the  error  is  in  allowing  our- 
selves to  think  upon  that  which  maddens  and  overwhelms  us. 
As  in  crossing  some  awful  precipice  the  only  safety  is  in  fixing 
your  eyes  on  some  distant  and  motionless  object,  neglecting 
which,  you  are  precipitated  into  the  abyss, — so  in  passing 
through  life  if  the  soul  is  diverted  from  heaven  and  repulsed 
from  earth,  concentrated  in  herself,  and  intent  on  her  slender 
foothold,  she  reels  with  fearful  giddiness,  and,  perhaps,  in  mad- 
ness plunges  into  the  gulf  of  the  unknown  future. 

Another  week  is  gone  irrevocably  ! — how  strange  that  it  should 
startle  us  no  more  !  Silently  and  steadily  the  days  glide  along, 
stealing  from  us  our  youth,  digging  our  graves,  and  hastening 
our  footsteps  towards  them,  and  we,  fools  that  we  are,  heed 
not  the  swift- winged  messengers.  Ye  fleeting  hours,  particles 
of  this  existence  that  is  wasting  so  rapidly  away !  shall  I 
permit  you  to  depart  with  no  record  that  you  have  passed  over  a 
being  like  myself,  when  like  the  south  wind  that  sweeps  over 
the  flowers,  your  wings  should  be  laden  1 

26 


298  THE    GIFT. 

16th.     To-day  I  have  read  over  some  old  letters, 
"  Relics  of  love  and  life's  enchanted  spring," 

and  thought  of  my  old  friends,  the  dead  and  the  changed,  for 
change  or  death  has  them  nearly  all.  I  held  in  my  hand  words 
traced  on  the  most  perishable  material,  yet  even  they  had  satis- 
fied the  hearts  that  dictated,  the  hands  that  transcribed  them.  I 
read  over  the  gushing  and  glowing  thoughts  of  those  who  are 
now  as  changed  and  cold  to  me  as  I  to  them,  but  whom  I  once 
met  delighted  and  delighting.  Bitter,  melancholy  truth,  that 
neither  love  nor  friendship  endures  !  Time  sweeps  over  and 
buries  all,  as  the  clouds  of  sand  sweep  over  the  plains  of  Egypt, 
burying  her  magnificent  monuments,  and  gradually  entombing 
the  pyramids  themselves.  As  the  excavator  among  these  relics 
removes  the  sand  and  soil,  and  stands  in  the  presence  of  the 
past,  so  I  have  to-day  communed  with  these  spectres  of  love  and 
friendship. 

I  wish  to  write  here  every  day,  for  I  think  when  I  have 
nothing  to  say,  it  is  evidence  that  the  day  has  been  wasted,  and 
who  is  so  rich  that  he  can  afford  to  lose  a  day  ? 

To-day  I  have  painted.  What  delightful  arts  are  painting  and 
poetry !  with  the  one  we  can  delineate  the  forms  and  with  the 
other  the  emotions  of  beauty. 

17 'th.  I  have  just  been  reading  two  or  three  of  Hazlitt's 
Essays,  where  he  expresses  my  feelings  almost  in  my  own 
words.  How  delightful  thus  to  meet  with  a  soul  that  responds 
to  mine,  though  thousands  of  miles  intervene  between  the  coun- 
tries of  our  birth,  and  beyond  rises  the  impassable  barrier  of  the 
grave. 

As  I  was  walking  along  on  the  shore  to-day,  I  found  myself 
musing  on  a  notorious  instance  of  unkindness,  and  asking 
myself,  "  What  have  you  to  expect  from  such  a  world  ?"  which 
I  think  was  a  very  silly  question.  Of  course  I  have  nothing  to 


DIARY    OF    A    RECLUSE.  299 

expect.  And  do  I  ask  a  reward  for  whatever  good  I  might 
chance  to  do,  in  the  shape  of  kindness  or  gratitude?  Are  my 
virtues  to  be  sold  even  at  such  prices?  Then  are  they  paltry 
indeed.  No,  I  have  nothing  to  sell.  Whatever  good  I  can  do 
should  be  done  freely,  without  hope  of  reward.  If  I  would  live 
aright,  self-sacrifice  is  the  first  lesson  I  must  learn.  What  a 
low  motive  for  being  good,  the  hope  of  a  reward !  And  even 
if  it  were  not  a  low  motive  it  would  be  a  very  useless  one, 
inasmuch  as  the  reward  is  seldom  forthcoming.  The  greatest 
benefactor  of  the  race,  men  crucified.  Let  me  endeavour  to 
imitate  his  divine  humility  and  love,  and  his  utter  abnegation  of 
self. 

I  continue  to  read  Gibbon.  When  I  think  of  those  massacres 
of  thousands,  each  one  of  whom  was  a  creature  like  myself,  and 
follow  the  gradual  but  irresistible  march  of  ages  as  they  move 
on,  bearing  down  empires,  and  trampling  on  humanity  as  on 
dust,  how  do  I  shrink  into  nothingness!  Often  after  reading 
history  a  mental  giddiness  comes  over  me,  and  the  world  and 
the  things  in  it  seem  gliding  like  a  moving  panorama  before  me, 
as,  after  sailing  a  long  time,  when  we  stop,  the  room  takes  the 
motion  of  the  boat. 


25th.  This  is  our  first  spring  day.  How  delightful  it  has 
been ! — and  yet  there  is  always  something  melancholy  in  this 
season — to  me,  '  the  saddest  of  the  year.'  I  just  now  returned 
from  an  hour's  sitting  on  the  rock  by  the  shore,  watching  the 
sunset;  surely  none  could  be  more  lovely — Italian  or  any  other. 
I  leaned  my  head  back  and  half  closed  my  eyes;  the  clouds 
seemed  like  islands  in  some  land  of  enchantment,  (islands  in 
land,)  and  while  I  sat  watching,  one  after  another  faded,  till  at 
last '  they  were  gone  and  all  was  gray.'  B 's  idea  of  per- 
fect happiness  is  floating  on  a  cloud  with  the  one  we  love. 
Dreamy  enough,  yet  I  could  not  give  a  better  definition  of 
happiness.  There  must  be  moments  in  love  that  would  atone 


300  THE    GIFT. 

for  a  life  of  misery.  That  first  consciousness  of  its  presence 
when 

"  We  feel  that  we  adore, 

To  such  refined  excess, 

That  though  the  heart  would  break  with  more, 
It  could  not  live  with  less." 

To  feel  this,  must  be  to  feel  the  concentrated  poetry  of  exis- 
tence. In  the  desert  of  life,  love  is  the  oasis  that  we  pine  to 
reach — that  reaching,  we  weep  to  part  from,  and  to  which  we 
still  turn  back  with  longing,  lingering  look. 

As  the  time  approaches  for  me  to  leave  this  place,  I  grow  so 
impatient  that  it  seems  to  me  the  next  fortnight  will  never  pass. 
How  two  years  of  solitude  and  study  have  changed  me  !  How 
gay  I  was  once  !  How  subdued  and  sedate  I  am  now !  Those 
that  have  known  me  before,  will  scarcely  recognise  me  now. 
In  thinking  over  the  list  of  my  early  friends,  how  many  have 

gone  to  their  last  repose !  Only  a  few  weeks  since,  H , 

among  others.  She  was  my  earliest  friend.  How  many  giddy 
hours  I  have  frolicked  away  with  her !  yet  the  last  time  we  met 
how  cold  was  our  meeting,  how  tearless  our  parting !  We  had 
grown  strangers. 

To-morrow  I  shall  leave  this  "  abomination  of  desolation"  for 
ever.  It  will  cost  me  some  pain  to  do  so,  notwithstanding  it  has 
scarcely  afforded  me  a  happy  moment  for  the  last  two  years 
that  I  have  vegetated  here.  Perhaps  I  shall  be  like  the  old 
prisoner  released  from  the  Bastille,  who  came  back  and  begged 
to  die  there. 

This  is  the  last  page  of  my  journal.  I  close  this  and  my 
exile  together. 


THE  END. 


